Paying the Iron Price
by TheFirstOfThisName
Summary: What if Theon Greyjoy had embraced his future as a man in the course of Robb Stark's war, and taken what he wanted like a real Ironborn? What if he hadn't paid the gold price? Wildly AU fic, focused around Theon. Rated M for violence and maybe smut.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note:** Thanks so much to all those who've been following my first fic, Dreams of Chivalry. This is not to say that I've abandoned it, but I've realized that I've written myself into a place I'd never intended to go. I will be returning to it, and soon, but I wanted to get this out in the open first. Whether or not I continue it further, well, if you like it, please, feel free to review, whether negatively or positively. Anywho…Enjoy!

Prologue

* * *

Theon Greyjoy, youngest son of Balon Greyjoy, heir to Pyke and the Iron Islands, and now one of Robb Stark's most faithful companions, buried his blade to the hilt in the belly of the Westerlander facing him.

The Northmen had marched on Riverrun with all haste in the hopes of raising the siege and freeing Ser Edmure Tully, Robb's uncle. Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort had taken command of a thousand men and gone to meet Tywin Lannister at the Green Fork. A delaying action, to be sure, but one that would enable the main host to smash Riverrun's besiegers, who were commanded by Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. So they had ridden through the evening to find themselves in a place they were told was called the Whispering Wood. It was a dark and gloomy place, where the trees closed tightly about them and the moon barely shone through the virtual canopy above their heads. He thought he even heard wolves howling in the distance (other than Robb's direwolf, of course).

But none of that mattered right then, as the Westerman's intestines spilled into his saddle as Theon wrenched his sword free, leaving an enormous slit in his adversary's belly. With a shout in victory, he finished the man with a thrust to his heart, Winterfell-forged steel piercing the boiled leather and chainmail with ease. What was the man's name? Theon wondered. Gawen Hill, or something? Whatever. He leapt out of his saddle as the dead man too slipped off of his horse. He had noticed a rather shiny bauble at his throat. Theon bent over to snatch it, and saw that it was a tiny golden brooch in the shape of a lion, with tiny emeralds for eyes. He hastily tucked it into his belt, and mounted his steed once more. "Rather well-ornamented for a bastard, aren't you? He asked of the corpse. When it became apparent that dead men truly tell no tales, Theon laughed to no one and booted his horse off in the direction of the battle.

As he rode closer, he could hear the sounds of steel clanging against steel and the screams of dying men. Upon the ground were the bodies of Lannister scouts, men unfortunate enough to be in the vanguard of the attack by the Northmen. Mangled ruins of men laid were they had fought and died, some brutally hacked into pieces or partially decapitated, but somehow Theon could not bring himself to care. After all, these were the enemies of the Starks and so were his enemies as well.

He could see Robb, hacking away at a man bearing a cudgel – pardon, a man who bore a cudgel until the Stark formerly in Winterfell cut through the man's arm. There were a number of the younger Northerners there as well. He saw Lord Karstark's sons Eddard and Torrhen, Daryn Hornwood, and a few others who he'd never bothered to remember the names of. Theon had been about to show his trophy to his friend and revel in his victory when a voice called out, "Perhaps the Young Wolf would like to face a real man in combat?"

Every head turned, and there he was: Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, clad entirely in golden plate. His helm resembled the head of a lion, and he was certainly a fearsome sight. Ser Jaime lowered his visor and drew his blade, which too was golden in color. Torrhen Karstark immediately booted his horse forward, yelling wildly, and exchanged a few blows with the knight before the Kingslayer's infamous blade slashed through the Karstark boy's neck. He fell, and Theon could feel his anger rising.

With Torrhen's death, Eddard screamed in a mixture of rage and horror. Daryn Hornwood and Stark's other young bodyguards closed in around their leader before preparing to charge the Kingslayer. Theon, however, burst forth from the forest and roared, "Taste the steel of a real man, Kingslayer: Ironborn steel!"

Ser Jaime seemed to be as surprised as the Northerner boys were. He certainly had not expected a challenge like that. Still, he had a reputation to maintain. He booted forward, casually raising his sword to meet Greyjoy's charge.

Their blades met with a clash. Theon's horse, at a dead gallop, crashed into the Kingslayer's which was practically still. There was no finesse to it, but simply the brute force of one horse hitting another. Both Jaime and Theon were thrown from their steeds. The momentum of Theon's sent him on a path that actually took him over the Kingslayer's horse, where he landed atop the Lion of Lannister, sword in hand. Cushioned by this unexpected buffer of the Kingslayer, he forced back Ser Jaime's visor. The man looked stunned. Unhorsed by a boy!

Theon grinned and murmured, "I wonder what they'll call me for this. The Lion-Tamer, perhaps? But I suppose you'll never know." The end of the blade pricked Jaime's throat, and bright red blood welled up from the wound. "I'm a little disappointed. You're simply much less impressive than I'd been led to believe."

He drove the point home, shoving it through the Kingslayer's windpipe, and withdrew his sword, blood welling out of the deep furrow. Theon's boot then stomped down upon his face, crushing the nose and breaking Ser Jaime's teeth. Finally, more out desire to end it than anything else, he tore the lion's head helm from him, and swung his sword like an axe in a downward arc which severed his head from his shoulders. The spray of his blood decorated Theon's surcoat of the Greyjoy Kraken with bright droplets of red. Theon stood there for a moment, looking at the headless Kingslayer.

* * *

When he turned his gaze away, he realized Stark and his companions had surrounded him – save for Eddard, who was crouched over Torrhen's still corpse. They were silent for a long while, until Robb finally stammered, "Erm…Theon. That was Jaime Lannister."

Daryn Hornwood exclaimed, "Seven hells, emphasis on was! What possessed you, Greyjoy?"

Theon could only rub a leather gauntleted hand against the back of his head. "I…"

He stopped as Eddard Karstark took him in a rough embrace. Theon hadn't seen him join them. "You killed my brother's killer. That makes you a damned hero in my opnion."

Stark gave him an odd look, before reaching out to clasp his arm. "That was the most foolish bit of dumb luck I've ever seen. But, you still bloody well killed the Kingslayer, Greyjoy. I guess you weren't joking about Ironmen all the time, now were you?"

He laughed at that. "Renowned in battle and in bed, I said, Stark. And both of those hold true." He tugged the brooch out, then. "Ran into a fellow earlier. Found thi-" He stopped as a hand hit him in the back. Daryn Hornwood was laughing. "What's gotten into you, Greyjoy? You killed the fucking Kingslayer, and have barely paid it any mind. Do you know what this means?"

Theon gave him a blank look, before Daryn threw up his hands in exasperation. "It means, idiot, that Lord Tywin will be displeased."  
One of the others snorted, "Now there's an understatement."  
Stark fixed him with a glare. "Go do something useful." The boy knuckled his forelock with a murmured "Aye, my Lord", but wasn't paid much attention. Theon raised an eyebrow, before Robb laid his hand upon his shoulder. "Daryn's right, Theon. Lord Tywin Lannister is not a forgiving man. And how he might feel of the one who killed his eldest son..." Stark trailed off, leaving it unsaid. Death would seem a paradise, most likely. "You can't stay here, Theon. You'll be in grave danger until this war is won."  
A furious scowl spread across Theon's face. "You want me to hide from my enemies? That is the path of a craven. I will stand and fight by your side, Stark, and not take it upon yourself to be my nursemaid!"  
Robb leaned forward and angrily whispered in his ear, "And you will not contradict me in front of my bannermen!"  
He took a deep breath asked, "Did you not swear yourself to my cause?"  
Theon nodded impatiently, "Aye, I did."  
Stark fixed him with that annoyingly penetrating stare. "Then you will so as I command." He sighed. "This is not done entirely for your safety. I want you to return to Pyke. Ask your lord father for his alliance, and burn Lannisport and the West to the ground."  
Hope returned slowly to Theon. Perhaps he wouldn't sit this out after all. "Very well, Stark. I'll do it."  
Robb clapped him on the shoulder, before looking over his own and grinning. "Well Greyjoy, that's good to hear. But for now, I think our companions have a gift for you."  
And quite a gift it was. It was Jaime Lannister's golden helm, free of the bloodstains left by its former occupant. The front was fashioned into the shape of a lion's face, with its mane cresting the top and reaching to the back. It was beautiful, and it was his. Eddard Karstark was the one to present it to him, his face still filled with grief at the death of his brother. Theon supposed that Lord Karstark could gain some measure of comfort in the fact that the Kingslayer had departed this world too. He placed it upon his head, and found that it fit remarkably well. Turning back to Robb, he offered a bit of a mocking bow. Stark drew his sword and roared, "The Kingslayer is dead! Now, we finish his men and free the castle!"  
Theon bellowed, "The Young Wolf!"  
The answering shout shook the trees, and the young Northmen plus an Ironborn stormed through the woods. As he was riding, Theon was amused to hear the occasional shout of "Greyjoy!" and "Kingslayer Slayer!"  
_My, this could be fun,_ thought Theon.


	2. Chapter 1

**Wassersaeufer**: I'm glad you like it. While I've always adored the moral ambiguity of G.R.R.M.'s characters, I still can't bring myself to write any main character in a shade of grey – I find they typically lean more towards the side of good, if anything. I also thought Theon to be a rather interesting character, and often found myself thinking about all the "what ifs", as there are so many points in his story where a different choice would have drastically altered his fate, and by extension that of Westeros. I hope that this is not much of a spoiler, or that it has been made apparent by now, but my favorite "what if" and the one I've chosen to write about is the thought of what would have happened if Theon the boy had instead become Theon the man. Thanks for reviewing!

Sorry for the above, everyone else. So, here's our next chapter.

Chapter One

The past two days had been rather strange for Theon. The Northmen had handily dispatched the separate Lannister hosts, in what would come to be known as the Battle of the Camps. Stark had fought with ferocity near to that of his pet wolf, and the men, upon hearing of the death of the Kingslayer at Theon's hands were nothing if not inspired.

And that was the root of his problem. Everywhere he went, he found a strange look in the eyes of other men. The older, grizzled ones wore expressions of profound respect. The younger, boys like Daryn Hornwood and Robb's other companions watched him with awe. Eddard Karstark seemed as though he didn't want to leave Theon's side. And Robb…Robb trusted him. For the first time in Theon's life, he knew that he was not an outsider, not anymore.

With this bothersome new feeling churning inside him, he'd gone into the feasting hall, hoping to find a skin of wine that wasn't sour as vinegar, maybe a decent meal, and a serving girl with big tits and a face that wouldn't be too repulsive to look at.

Immediately after Theon sat down, though, he found himself accosted by a page. "Pardons, mi'Lord, but Lord Robb sent for me to find you. You're to attend him in Lord Tully's solar at once."

The page bowed and scuttled off, presumably on some other errand. Theon scowled, and considered drinking himself blind first, but sighed and pushed away from the table. As he departed, he saw the respect and awe in the eyes of the Northmen, and he stood up a little straighter. He positively basked in it, and decided that a busty wench could wait.

* * *

When he arrived, he pushed open the doors to the room and entered. Stark was sitting there, surrounded by his lords bannermen and a few of the Riverlords: Mallister, Edmure and Brynden Tully, Marq Piper, Jonos Bracken, Karyl Vance, Tytos Blackwood, Jason Mallister, and Stevron Frey. Lords Umber, Karstark, Flint, and Glover were joined with Ser Wendel Manderly of White Harbor, in addition to Lord Rickard's son Eddard, as well as Daryn Hornwood. Daryn's face was white as a sheet. Finally, Robb stood and said, "Theon. We've had word from Lord Bolton. They met the Lannisters at the Green Fork."

Theon furrowed his brow and asked, "And?"

Robb sighed, "Daryn is now Lord Hornwood. Lord Halys was slain. Robett Glover, Harrion Karstark, Ser Wylis Manderly, and Lord Medger Cerwyn were captured, though Lord Bolton escaped with the majority of the contingent intact."

Theon nodded briskly. "Well then," he said. "When are we going to kill the other Lannister?"

Lord Jon Umber, called the Greatjon, let out a short, booming laugh. "Ha! The boy's eager to take the head of the father too!"

Robb cut in, "Lord Theon will not be able to do that, I'm afraid. He will be returning to Pyke on the morrow to seek Lord Balon's alliance." Stark fixed him with a withering look.

Theon agreed, "Aye. I will." Robb looked somewhat mollified at that.

"So. The Ironmen will attack from the sea, and we from the land," Lord Galbart Glover mused. "My Lord. Have you considered how the Queen Regent and her son shall react? Lord Eddard remains imprisoned, as do your sisters…" He left the rest unsaid.

Robb's jaw clenched. "There is no other choice. We must win this war. If we can defeat Lord Tywin in the field, they will be forced to seek peace. Then, and only then, can we assure the safety of my family."

Glover nodded thoughtfully. "Of course, my Lord, I agree. However, you must realize that-"

Every man in the room jumped and reached for their swords when the door to the solar slammed open. Lady Catelyn Stark swept past the threshold, tears streaking down her cheeks. Robb bolted to her, and gripped her by the elbows. "Mother? What is the matter?"

Lady Stark's mouth moved, as if she was trying to form words, but in the end she broke into sobs, and handed Robb a small parchment.

Concerned, he took it and read through it quickly. Theon could see his eyes widen. He stepped over to Robb asked, "What is it, Stark?"

Wordlessly, Robb handed the letter to Theon. He seemed trapped in a daze. Theon, in turn, ran his eyes across the ink, and swore loudly. He looked up from the paper and addressed the Northmen. "My Lords…Eddard Stark is dead."

* * *

That had been a shock, for Theon. Apparently, following the news of the Kingslayer's death, Joffrey Baratheon- _no, certainly Lannister_ –had ordered Lord Eddard's execution with his own weapon, the greatsword Ice.

Robb's new bannermen responded by declaring him the King in the North. It seemed they would fight the War of the Rebellion all over again, and rend the realm in twain while doing so.

That same night, Theon had taken Robb into a rough embrace once the Riverlords and Northmen had sought out their beds. Robb had wept then, for the fate of his father and what he believed would occur for his sisters as well. Theon had never seen him so vulnerable, so raw, as he did right now. He had known that Robb held more than ice in his heart, and that he was counted a friend, but was shaken to think that Robb held him in such esteem that he would bare himself as naked as this. This in mind, he held his friend tighter and resolved that everything in his power would be done to ensure he never endangered this trust. Theon did think the wine was appropriate now, and the two drank into the wee hours of the morning.

When he awoke, he realized he was in his own well-equipped rooms in Riverrun. He must have stumbled back to them sometime before dawn. When he tried to rise, a piercing wave a pain rolled through his head. There was a monstrously bright light glaring in through his narrow window like a million torches were being held up outside it. Raising a hand to shield his eyes, he realized it was only the midmorning sun. "Blahg." His throat was dry, and his tongue felt as though it were covered with fur. "I need…some ale.." He slid off of his bed, and stumbled towards the door leading from his bedchamber. He paused, remembering something. Glancing down at himself, he muttered, "Trousers…right."

A few minutes of vague cursing and struggles to fasten his belt, he emerged from his room to accost a nearby servant, shouting and sending the poor fellow running for ale and eggs for Lord Greyjoy. When the man returned, Theon's head was still pounding. He quickly gulped the frothy drink down, and ravaged the small plate of eggs like a man who hadn't eaten in weeks.

As he did so, his headache slowly dissipated and he strutted off for the great hall, a little bounce in his step.

Theon arrived to find Robb and most of the lords in attendance. His friend and now King looked more or less recovered from their binge the night before. As he made his way over, Eddard Karstark stepped deftly in front of him. He offered a hand, which Theon took and clasped briskly. He greeted him, "Greyjoy."

Theon tilted his head forward slightly. "Karstark."

Eddard gestured away from the dais. "If you wouldn't mind, my lord father would like to speak with you." He turned Theon towards one of the many tables.

Theon shrugged, "I…I suppose not."

Karstark rose to greet him. Lord Rickard, sharing the same name as Robb's grandfather, was an imposing man with a rather impressive beard. He was big man, though not nearly so enormous as either of the Jon Umbers. Eddard took his place flanking his father.

Theon offered an obligatory bow. "Lord Karstark. It is-"

Lord Karstark cut him off. "So this is the famous Slayer of the Kingslayer, eh?"

Theon replied, "Aye. I am the same." He was curious, though, as to what precisely the man wanted.

He eyed Theon in a studied manner, as though sizing him up. "Well, Greyjoy, you killed the man who killed my son. For that, I'm in your debt."

He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. "As you say. Still. He was an enemy, and I killed him. There isn't much more to it than that." Eddard Karstark nodded approvingly. "Was there anything else, my Lord? I am to depart for Pyke this morning, once I have spoken with His Grace."

Lord Rickard blinked. Then, in a greatly exaggerated casual manner asked, "Indulge me if you will, but you are currently unwed, are you not?"

Theon nodded slowly. "Aye…I have no wife, nor am I betrothed."

He pursed his lips and eyed the Ironman thoughtfully. "Well then. One thing at a time. I would greatly like to speak with you again, once we've won Robb Stark's war, eh?"

Theon bowed once more, "It would be my singular honor." He straightened, and strode off for the dais and his king. _His son isn't even three days in the ground and he is already trying to marry off his daughter. How delightful._

When he reached the foot of the dais, he bowed before his monarch and Robb said loudly, "Lord Greyjoy. Come forward."

Theon complied, and inquired in a quiet voice, "Robb? Are you certain that now, after…everything, you want me to leave?"

Robb nodded, and responded in that same tone. "Aye. I need your people, Theon, and I need you to destroy the West. Tywin Lannister won't know what to do if I'm knocking on his front door and Lannisport is in ruins."

Theon began to understand and said, "I'm with you, Robb, to whatever end. We will take justice for your father, and everyone else we've already lost."

"Farewell, Greyjoy. Try not to fuck _everything_ with a pulse between here and Pyke." Robb grinned, and punched Theon in the shoulder playfully.

Theon snorted. "You might learn how to make a proper jest if you didn't spend so much time fucking your hand. Find a woman already, Stark. In that Northern ice it might freeze and fall off at any time – you might as well use it whilst you can," he retorted.

Robb waved him away, "Go find yourself an army – you're starting to foul the air up around here." He stood, and shouted to the hall, "Theon Greyjoy! Slayer of the Kingslayer!"

The thunderous uproar that followed shook the walls, and Theon thought for a good long while afterwards that he'd gone deaf.

The next morning, Theon rode out from the gates of Riverrun under the watchful eyes of virtually every one of its inhabitants, and set off on the road for Seagard and home.


	3. Chapter 2

**Isabelle of the Greenwood:** I'm pleased that you're enjoying it, and I do promise to continue this as quickly as I can.

**MoscQuetier:** Well, it's good to know I have such an avid new fan. Welcome to the "Following". But not really. Eh. You know what I mean.

**Londoner:** "More please!"? I'll be happy to oblige.

**Wassersaeufer:** The thing about names and stories is that they have a propensity to change with every re-telling. I don't expect it to take long before someone more inventive than the Greatjon comes along. Actually, I'm sure virtually anyone would be more inventive than the Greatjon. As for the other, thank you. Referring to my earlier acknowledgement, my Theon, I think, will be slightly less of a pushover when it comes time for action rather than bandying words.

**Supremus85:** SHH! Don't give away the plot! *Exasperated sigh*. I might just not bother writing a Chapter Two, now.

**Everyone Else:** Well, Wow. Four hundred hits in less than 24 hours. A significantly greater fan response than to my first fic, Dreams of Chivalry. Is this a sign that nobody gives a flying f*ck about Sansa and all her angst? *Shrugs.* Still, thanks to all of you for following, fav'ing, and reviewing!

Chapter Two

As the island emerged from the mist, Theon found himself feeling oddly disappointed. The scent of the sea and of rotting fish was in the air, forcing all but the most acclimated persons below deck. Pyke itself was as dreary as he recalled, just a scrap of land jutting forth from the waters and dotted with various fishing villages. The sky was darkened by a constant gloom, and dark grey clouds blotted out the sun. The castle, though run-down in appearance, was built into the cliff face and overlooked the ocean. Theon tried to imagine exactly how he would be received. He knew his father, or what he could recall of him, had been a hard man, not prone to expressing emotions other than anger. But surely that stone-face might crack at the victorious return of his only living son and heir?

With a mental shrug, he returned down the creaky wooden steps to the captain's – his – cabin. He slipped off a pair of sturdy leather gloves and kicked his boots into a corner before shutting the door behind him. He fell face forward onto his bed, inwardly groaning at himself for not having followed through with his intention to find a whore or likely looking girl and fuck her brains out. A day earlier, he'd considered taking the captain's daughter for himself, but Theon had ultimately ruled against it. She had a bit of a clingy air about her, and that simply wouldn't do to have from some peasant girl.

Theon lay there thinking about what exactly he would say to his father when he saw him for the first time in ten years when a knock came at his door. The captain of the vessel, a short and stout man, barged in and said, "My Lord. We have arrived."

"Excellent," Theon said, and leapt up from where he lay. Snatching up his sword belt and coin purse, he marched past the man in the entryway and called back, "Oh, and please do take care to fetch my saddlebags with all due haste. There might even be a bit of silver for you if you move quickly, Captain!"

Without bothering to turn and look for what would have to be indignation on the man's face, Theon bounded up the stairway to the deck, and narrowed his eyes as he scanned the docks.

A few moments later, the older man was at his side with a red face and burdened by his erstwhile passenger's belongings. The first mate, watching, gestured sharply to a thrall, and the serf took the captain's burden.

Theon absently reached for a coin or two and tossed them to the man beside him. They were greedily snatched from the air. He said loudly, "Well, Captain, thank you for your service. The food tasted like shit, and your daughter was hardly pretty enough to fuck without having nightmares for the rest of my days." Theon offered a sweeping, mocking bow. "Good day, Captain."

He reached the landward end of the pier, the thrall with his saddlebags evidently his for the time being. Theon instructed the man to drop them and fetch a horse. The man stumped off for the stables, leaving his Greyjoy master alone in the sand. He realized that his arrival might come as something of a surprise to his family. After all, he had not been announced, as Tywin Lannister surely had spies everywhere. It would not do for Theon to ruin the Lannisters' surprise.

When the man returned, Theon tied down his bags to his newfound steed's flanks, leapt into the saddle, and set off at a trot for the fortress of the Greyjoys.

* * *

The men at the gates had been in something akin to shock when he'd told them his name. They'd fallen over themselves trying to welcome Theon home, the lost heir, the prodigal son, and the man who'd killed Jaime Lannister. It amused him to no end to hear that there was a title his sword had been lauded with: Lionsbane. He was attired in a black trousers of a sturdy linen, and a grey-and-black doublet of finer material. His only ornamentation was the Lannister brooch which held his black cloak in place, which was edged with cloth-of-gold.

Walking purposefully through the halls of the fortress, little that Theon saw had changed from his boyhood home. That bleak, grey stone still served as the only decoration of the walls, save for the occasional torch lighting the way.

After he and his escort passed through a few corridors, they reached the doors to the great hall, which were open and pouring light and noise into the void. As Theon stepped inside, he noticed several things at once. First, his eyes went immediately to the high table where he saw his father, Lord Balon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, for the first time in over ten years. The man was little different than from how Theon could recall; if anything, the years had made him leaner and harder. To his right sat a woman who seemed vaguely familiar, and who caused a formidable stirring in his trousers. _Certainly more attractive than any other woman I've seen since landing here,_ he thought.

Refusing to let his thoughts linger there for too much longer, Theon saw his uncles Victarion and Aeron as well. That left only the women of House Greyjoy, his mother Alannys and his sister, Asha. _And such an ugly sow she had been._

He could identify a number of others, like Harras Harlaw, the wielder of the Valyrian blade Nightfall, and several of the more powerful captains of the Iron Fleet.  
Theon decided that the only way to address his father would be head on, so he set his shoulders and strode into the hall. His back was erect, and the kraken emblazoned proudly upon his chest. His cloak was thrown back over his shoulder to display the sword made for him by Mikken in Winterfell that would apparently be known as Lionsbane for the rest of his days. The brooch he had claimed from the Lannister knight glinted in the firelight, and he approached the dais. As he did so, he called out, "Lord Balon!"

The general ruckus of the hall quickly subsided, as heads turned in interest to meet this new arrival. Lord Balon's eyes widened visibly in surprise, but his voice remained surprisingly level. "Theon."

Theon doubled himself in an appropriate bow. "Father. I have come-"

"-Dressed like a whore?" His father interrupted callously. The hall exploded into laughter. His uncle Victarion pounded the table with a fist, joining in with the others, though Aeron the Damphair remained silent.

Theon waited for them to stop, fuming silently. Even the slut who sat beside Lord Balon laughed. He would give the botch something to laugh about...  
Clearing his throat, he continued, "-I have come as an emissary from the King in the North, Robb Stark. He would ask that you fight by his side against the Lannisters and the false king, Joffrey Waters."

Lord Balon stood, staring down his son. "So, you are the Starks' lapdog? Giving into the ways of the Greenlanders? Faugh! You are no son of mine!"

"I fight for Robb Stark because I choose to! No man made that decision for me!" Theon roared in reply, surprising himself by the anger in his voice. Why did he care what this man, who had surrendered him so readily, thought?

Lord Balon spat on the ground. "That whore's ornament of yours: did you pay the iron price?"

Theon simply had enough. This man, who had cowered behind his walls whilst the realm bled and failed to keep his own blood safe, dared question_ his_ courage?  
"I paid for it with the steel of my sword and the blood of my enemies: the iron price,_ Father_!"

He snapped his fingers as Lord Balon began to voice his disbelief, and the thrall who had borne his belongings before scuttled forward, clutching a burlap sack before him. Theon snatched it from him, and let it fall to the floor before him. He tugged the cloth away, and proclaimed, "This is the helm of Ser Jaime Lannister: the Kingslayer!" He indicated the golden lion's head helmet on the ground. Then he drew his sword. "And this is the sword that killed him!"  
Lord Balon seemed a bit at a loss for words. The hall had gone deathly silent, not one of the Ironmen daring to speak before their lord. Victarion was the only one to even react, and he did so with a beaming grin.

Theon bent down to take up the helm and tuck it beneath his arm. "King Stark would have your friendship, father, and your alliance. But what he wants are your ships, and for the West to burn. One way or another."

Victarion stepped down from the dais, and peered down at Theon. The Commander of the Iron Fleet was an enormous man. After what seemed an eternity, he took Theon in a great bear hug, one fist tousling his hair. Beaming, Victarion turned to face his brother. "Balon, I'm afraid you must be mistaken. It would have to have taken one of our seed to best the Kingslayer!"

Aeron Damphair stood and spoke for the first time. "My Lord, I must agree. The boy is certainly worthy of the Drowned God."

He turned to Theon, "Do you remember, boy, after so long in the green lands?"

Theon responded immediately. "Aye. What is dead can never die."

Aeron might have smiled, but Balon stepped in, shouting once more. "This boy would have me bend the knee to another boy, who's father saw both of my sons dead, and my third made into a woman!"

Theon bristled at that, and retorted angrily, "Aye. I love the family that laid you low. But they and I are out spilling blood while you hide behind yours walls like the old craven you are! If you will not call your banners, then perhaps it is time Pyke saw a new lord!" He finished this breathlessly.

Suddenly, his father began to laugh. He stepped down and joined his brother and Theon. Balon embraced him, and said loudly, "Ha! Now this is an Ironman. More balls than brains or ability!"

The entire hall shook with laughter, and Balon smiled with approval at his returned son. Aeron came down and clasped his hand, while Victarion began enthusiastically pounding him on the back. Suddenly, the woman from before was in front of him, and embraced him. He was more than a little surprised, and began to push her away when she grinned at him mischievously and murmured, "What's the matter, little brother? Afraid to hug your sister."

He definitely pushed her away this time. "Wait-wait-wait...Asha?" He asked incredulously.

She winked at him. "The one and only."

His jaw dropped. "But you're...well...different."

"You mean, not horrendously plain?" She asked sweetly. "Don't strain yourself, Theon. That changed about the time I received the breasts, as well."

Theon just turned away, and was about to make for his father when he was suddenly accosted by a gaggle of various minor lords, and subsequently forced into a drinking contest.

* * *

Several unwisely imbibed skins of wine and tankards of piss-poor ale later, Theon found himself stumbling back to his father's solar, leaning against his uncle Victarion, who was in a similar state.

As they lurched through the door, Theon tried to concentrate through the drink-induced haze. His father was sitting behind a writing desk, with Asha standing beside him and Aeron in the corner. Balon glanced up as they entered and Theon inquired, "I trust you've considered my message?"

Lord Balon nodded slowly, plainly unhappy about it. "I have. I had feared your time as Eddard Stark's ward might have made you soft, or forgetful of your heritage. But," he said, indicating his son's sword, "you have proven I should have naught to fear if that. Perhaps I should be thankful your time with the Greenlanders has refined you into a man of salt and iron."

Theon nodded slowly. "Aye. But what of Robb's request? Will you go to war with me against Tywin Lannister and King's Landing?" His fingers twitched, hoping with every fibre of his being that the answer would be-

"-Yes. You and Victarion shall sail south and take Lannisport. But this time, you will raze it to the ground. We will not repeat my mistake of ten years past." Balon grinned suddenly. "No creature can survive against the Kraken at sea, and we are just as fearsome on land, for we take what is ours."

"We Do Not Sow," Theon quoted softly.

His father smiled, the second time Theon could remember him doing so towards him. "Just so, my son. Just so." He stood up from his chair. "Now, write to this Young Wolf that the Ironmen will win his war."


	4. Chapter 3

**DeathBladeVI:** Glad you're enjoying it and are along for the ride. It'll be fun (I hope).

**Londoner:** Shhh! All in good time, my friend.

**Wassersaeufer:** Well, the greater the height, the greater the fall, yes? As for the other, Balon has always struck me as a man who must be a supreme actor. After all, he managed to keep his head after the first Rebellion. So, don't quite yet count him out.

**AnEnglishDragon1:** Well, Robb's offer of an alliance was intentionally ambiguous. In other words, wait and see? And thank you. Good to have you along for the ride.

**Isabelle of the Greenwood:** Heh. My pleasure.

**Nuyorican:** Well, thank you.

Now that's out of the way, sorry for taking a little longer with this update. I realize that my previous one's have been within 24 hours of one another. Things have started to pick up again for me, what with school and football training. Not that you really care. In conclusion, if there isn't an update for a period of any few days, don't panic.

-TFOTN

Chapter Three

Theon was lying in his bunk in the cabin of the _Iron Victory_, the flagship of the Iron Fleet and the Lord Captain Victarion Greyjoy's home away from home. Three days had passed, in which ships and men from all across the Islands had poured into Lordsport, the port village on the island of Pyke. He had written to Robb, informing him that his father had declared the Iron Islands to be a separate kingdom allied with the Kingdom of the North and the Trident.

Robb, in turn, informed the Iron Prince of another victory at Oxcross where Rickard Karstark had killed Ser Stafford Lannister in the fighting and the inexperienced Westermen had broken in the first charge. It had been a slaughter. Robb said he'd been wounded, but was fine, and mentioned something about a girl. Theon had tried to pay attention to what his friend had written, but he was simply too excited. This was it. It was the night in which they would sail for Lannisport. Theon had hoped to stop at Harlaw and see his mother, Lady Alannys, but Uncle Victarion had assured him there would not be time. While he was mildly disappointed, he was sure he would have plenty of time for the domestic once he'd cut down a few hundred or so more Lannisters or servants of Lannisters.

A knock came at his door, interrupting his reverie. Theon leapt to his feet and stepped across the room and opened it. It was Asha. She eyed him speculatively a moment before saying, "Brother. You're wanted above deck."

Theon nodded, and stood there while Asha stood in the doorway. "Was there something else?"

She frowned, folding her arms across her chest. "I don't know who you think you are, brother, but making a name for yourself among the Greenlanders means nothing, here."

Theon blinked.

"Father may have accepted you," Asha continued, "but don't even think that means you are one of us."

Theon had to laugh at that. "Jealous, big sister? Afraid I've come to steal away your birthright?" He leaned in closer, an almost malicious grin on his face. "Well, I have. Now. You'd damn well better get out of my way and back ashore like a good girl."

Asha's hand went to a dirk at her belt, but Theon deftly stepped around and behind her, and pressed his dagger against her spine. He murmured into her ear, "Do you feel that tiny prick against your back?"

Asha's answering smirk was wicked. "What is that, your cock?"

If he had enough hands for it, Theon would have smacked them against his face. "No. That's my blade." He frowned. "You certainly are an insolent bitch, aren't you?" He shrugged, and without giving her time to formulate another cheeky remark continued, "No matter. Though I'm sure you've plenty of experience with pricks of all sizes." A foot kicked backwards and into his knee. That hurt. "I'm going to leave, and I expect that you will do the same."

He turned, and strode determinedly down the wooden hall and up the stairway. Behind him, he heard the creak of boots upon wooden planks. About damn time.

Putting aside his confrontation with Asha, he found his uncle Victarion at the longship's helm. He was clad in full plate armor, as was fitting the Iron Captain who had no fear of death by drowning. That was for poor sailors and cravens.

Victarion turned to greet him, before bellowing, "Raise anchor! Signal our departure to the fleet!"

Sailors scurried about, adjusting the mainsail and preparing the oars should the ship be becalmed. Victarion grinned. "Our heading takes us due south and out of sight of the mainland. When we are prepared, we will do just as we did ten years ago: sail right into the harbor, burn the Lannister fleet, and take the city before anyone is the wiser."

Theon couldn't help but smile. "Aye, Uncle. And then what? Do we simply sail off?"

Victarion frowned. Apparently, no one had thought ahead any further than that. "We have to take the damned place first, boy."

Theon nodded. "Aye. But, we won't have time to formulate our plans while Tywin Lannister is knocking at the gates."

"That is true. But the Kraken is strongest at sea, Theon." Victarion looked over his shoulder to shout for a man who seemed to be the first mate of the Iron Victory, and inform him to adjust the heading.

"As you say, Uncle. But I feel that if we raid the city, we will certainly take plenty of gold, but what will we have accomplished for the war? Their fleet will be burned, but it is hardly a threat to us. Only Stannis Baratheon or Paxter Redwyne has enough ships to even pose a danger." Theon paused. "I think that we must hold the city, distract the Westermen long enough for Robb and his Northmen to arrive, and then smash them to pieces against the walls of Lannisport."

Victarion slowly nodded. "Very well, lad. If you want the damned city, we'll take the damned city."

* * *

It was two hours after dusk. The Iron Fleet gathered out of the harbor, ships assembling like a murder of crows. Theon stood in the bow of the _Iron Victory_ as the last of the longships sailed closer. Nearly the entirety of the strength of the Iron Islands was with them. Victarion's armored bulk shook the deck as he came to stand at his shoulder. His uncle's voice rumbled, "Lefford's trousers will be caught around his ankles. Again." He laughed.

Theon heard the solid step of boots reverbating upon the thick wood of the longship's deck. A thick palm came to rest upon his shoulder and a familiar, gruff voice asked, "You prepared to butcher us a few lions, then, boy?"

He laughed aloud. "Dagmer? Dagmer Cleftjaw?" Theon's head spun to the left, and sure enough there stood a man he had not seen in ten years, but could not hope to forget in twenty.

Dagmer Cleftjaw, the master-of-arms at Pyke, did not possess a face a maiden might faint over - a face, say, like Theon's own. The hardened Ironman was disfigured from an old wound, splitting his two lips into four and leaving him with a nasty scar. Despite his rather grotesque appearance, the Iron Prince was rather fond of him.

Dagmer stepped back and said, "I see ye've done rather well for yerself, boy."

Theon shrugged, as if to say _what else did you expect?_

Victarion grinned. "And here I thought the lad would be a mewling excuse of a man. Still. He's done us proud."

Finally, Theon had to interrupt and say,"Oi! If you two old crones are quite finished, I believe there's a war on. Admiral Lefford might not be so kind as to ignore our presence forever."

The two grizzled warriors shared a glance before erupting into further laughter. Dagmer stumped off, still chuckling.

His uncle cleared his throat. "Dagmer here volunteered to watch your back. You're a capable lad, we won't argue that, but the heir to the Iron Islands can't be going and dying in a ditch by himself, neither."

"Of course, of course. I'll be glad to have him by my side," Theon hastily established. He took a breath and asked, "Is the fleet in position?"

Victarion Greyjoy winked. "That's right. Not even a single galley on patrol. The Botleys' ships got here ahead of us, and sank the few fishermen still out."

Theon nodded, and a small fluttering ddeveloped in the pit of his stomach. Why was he nervous? He'd killed men in battle before. _You'd never been leading one, though. Just got lucky and knocked the Kingslayer down with that damn fool move of yours..._

Silencing his inner, traitorous thoughts, Theon forced a grin onto his lips. "Now, Uncle?"

The Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet looked and his nephew, and nodded. "Yes. Now." Victarion reached to his belt and pulled forth a horn carved from ivory: an exquisite piece, really. When it blew, a sound so fierce, so utterly savage poured forth that it was sure to waken every Westerman in the city and move them to trembling.

* * *

The plan was simple, really. The smallest, fleetest ships would stream into the unguarded harbor, where men aboard would toss bundles of thatch, pots of oil, and anything else that might burn onto the largest of the Lannister galleys. There would be little risk of resistance, as most of the crews should be ashore and passed out drunk or nearly there. Those who weren't would likely be officers or deckhands - little threat to the experienced sailors of the Iron Fleet.

Then would come the heavier longships, led by the _Iron Victory. _The archers aboard these would light their arrows, aand send them for the now very flammable enemy vessels. Those unskilled in archery were instructed to heave flaming brands, and the significant number of shipboard ballistas and light catapults would not go to waste.

The Ironmen expected little armed effort to prevent the sack of the city. With Ser Stafford and Jaime's armies destroyed, Lord Tywin's riding for the Golden Tooth, and Ser Daven struggling with training the last remaining levies of Casterly Rock, the only trained soldiers would be the men of the Lannisport City Watch, a force smaller and more ill-equipped than King's Landing's own Goldcloaks. The longships would begin to disembark, and the lords would lead their personal retinues to seize the walls and gates against relief from the outside, whilst the rest of the Ironborn rabble would fill the city with arson, rape, and murder.

It was a simple plan. One thing about plans, though, is that once the first arrow flies, they rarely hold.

This one, however, went off without a hitch.

* * *

Theon was exhausted. He'd launched every arrow in his quiver at the war galleys, and set innumerable piles of thatch alight, and there were still vessels to burn. But no matter. He had a greater task before him. If they were to hold any hope of surviving the aftermath of the battle aand holding the city, the gates would have to secured against reprisal by Ser Daven Lannister's forces.

Flames raged around him. He saw men aboard burning wrecks throw themselves into the sea to escape the heat and earthly hell of the dying ships. They found no refuge in the icy water. The few who were not feathered by the arrows of the Ironmen soon found that the cold depths below would welcome the dead just as readily as the overwhelming inferno above. The night sky was turned red by the fire and the emptiness of the void filled with the sreams and pleas of dying men.

Theon was jarred to attention as the _Iron Victory _crashed into the end of the wharf. Anchors were dropped, Victarion Greyjoy's curses fueled the scurry of his crew, and the ship halted grudgingly. Theon exchanged a brief nod with Dagmer Cleftjaw and leapt over the railing of the bow after snatching a fresh quiver. His boots thudded sharply against the wood of the dock, and he heard Dagmer growl a curse at the weight of the impact, and something about the stress on his "old, weary bones".

After perhaps half of an hour spent charging down ruined cobblestone streets with swarms of howling marauders, dodging falling timbers from burning, looted shops, and cutting down the occasional watchman foolish, slow, or suicidal enough to stand in their way, Theon and Dagmer found themselves at the eatern gate. With them were Tristifer Botley, Lord Botley's second son, a young man named Qarl, who the others called "the Maid", and a pair of fellows from Harlaw who claimed no particular significance except for the fact that they were virtually identical. Tris, as the Botley boy instisted he be called, seemed to be a complete fop, though Qarl and the other two seemed at the very least to be able to handle themselves.

The quintet rushed the men protecting the gatehouse, and the frightened, poorly disciplined guardsmen were quickly cut down. One of the twins was grazed by an arrow hastily amied by the last of the Lannister soldiers: that proved to be the worst mistake of his very abruptly ended life. The unharmed one bulled forward, and ripped through his stomach with a wicked-looking axe. The edge tore out the poor archer's intestines, which the enraged warrior dragged with him. The man colllapsed, screaming out in vain to the Seven to deliver him.

When the fellow finally expired, Dagmer turned to Theon and clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, lad, this gate's secure. I'll go find your uncle and have him send men to garrison it." He turned and took off into the desolated streets.

Theoon turned back to his companions, and was shocked to see the perfectly mirrored looks of surprise on the twins' faces as a steel blade emerged from each of their bellies. The swords were retracted and the men slumped forward to the ground. Behind them, bearing bloody weapons, were Tris Botley and Qarl.

Theon swore loudly and whipped his sword from its scabbard. "What in all of the hells is...What madness has...murderous, craven bastards!" In his horror, words continued to escape him.

Tris Botley smirked and lazily moved to circle behind the Iron Prince. "Tsk, Tsk, _Your Highness_. Surely such language is unbecoming of royalty?"

Qarl shuffled from one foot to the other, eyeing Theon warily. "Enough, Botley. Let's just kill him already. Bring his sword back as proof."

Suddenly, Theon grinned. "My sword? You've heard of Lionsbane, have you?"

At the mention of the newly-famous blade's name, the assurance of the other Ironborn men faded. The Maid appeared even more fidgety than before, and Botley looked like he was suffering from a bout of indigestion.

Theon pressed the advantage. "Who hired you? Tywin Lannister? That creature Joffrey?"

Tris scoffed, his fear forgotten. "Hired? I'm no sellsword! I've come to claim your head that I might sway the lovely lady Asha in preparation for the many children she will one day bear me, thanks to you."

The Prince snorted, but The Maid sstepped in, quicky stating, "She's not one for motherhood, hearth, and home, Tris."

Tris gave him an annoyed look. "I don't know why you are even speaking. A commoner like you couldd certainly never know the delights of a woman like _her._"

Qarl cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Actually..."

Tris spun on his erstwhile ally. "You low-born filth! You laid hands upon my bride?!" His sword leapt to Qarl's throat, and Theon deftly stepped behind him.

"It wasn't like that! Damnit Tris, you're going to let him get away!" Qarl shouted angrily.

Botley ignored this. "I'll kill him when I'm done with you. Then, my lady love will have no other concerns, and everything will be-"

Tris was cut off unexpectedly when the sword that had decapitated Ser Jaime Lannister pierced his spine. The steel shaped in the heart of Winterfell slid through flesh like warm butter, and he had only time to scream before his lifeblood poured from him, and Tris Botley crumpled forward over Qarl the Maid.

Theon jerked Lionsbane back and brandished it before him. "Ready to die, gutter-scum?"

Qarl stepped to meet him, but Theon could see he'd resigned himself to his fate. The two Ironmen exchanged a few desultory blows, Theon with all the casualness of a proven and skilled bladesman, and Qarl with the desperation of a doomed man.

He spat at the feet of the peasant who dared defy him. "This is hardly a challenge. I really don't know what my sister could posssibly have seen in you."

The Iron Prince found his opening when his sister's lover lashed out with a slightly too heavy blow, leaving his arm over-extended. Quick as a cobra, Lionsbane lashed upward and into the flesh of Qarl's armpit, biting deep to the bone through an unpadded leather jerkin. The steel edge hit home, and the Maid dropped his own weapon with a mighty clatter.

With a bit of a contemptuous air, Theon bent down to finish the traitor quickly, drawing his belt knife and driving it into his heart. When the corpse quit twitching, he stood and set off to find Dagmer and enough ale to make him forget about relatives with kinslaying tendencies.

"First Dagmer. Then the ale. Then Tywin Lannister, and when all is said and done, my dear sister and I shall have a reckoning." _I hope I don't leave it 'till it's too late._

As Theon strutted down the corpse-filled cobblestone street, he started whistling a merry tune. "What a fine day," he said to no one in particular as the ruins of Lannisport continued to perish in an eternal blaze around him. And somewhere up there, out in the heavens, some god with a perverted sense of humor caused the skies to open, and a tumultuous crashing of thunder was heard. The clouds gathered, and the waters fell upon Theon's head in a deluge. _Could this get any worse?_


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Howdy everybody. Hope you enjoyed this last chapter. Feel free to review and tell me what you liked, didn't like, or have questions about. Constructive criticism is appreciated, as always. Still a little overwhelmed by the response from you guys with over three hundred hits within six hours of me posting chapter three. So, the rest of you anonymous guys out there, don't be shy to leave me your feedback.

But enough about that. How about another chapter?

-TFOTN

Chapter Four

Dawn broke. It was the fourth day after the fall of Lannisport. Weak golden rays peeked through the shutters and into the apartment of the late Admiral Lefford. He, and every other Lannister henchman the Ironmen had encountered, had been ceremonially drowned by Aeron the Damphair. The fires had died down by the morning of the third day, leaving most of the men of the previous half million population of the booming city dead or missing, and presumed dead. In the burnt-out wreckage of the larger buildings like taverns that hadn't been flooded by rowdy Ironborn reavers and hastily destroyed guard barracks piles of heat- shrunken bodies were stacked like cordwood, the adults twisted to the size of children, and children to the size of mere babes. Those women and girls unlucky enough to not be put to the sword or escape the city altogether had been raped until senseless and made salt wives. Each man had been able to claim at least one for his own, a plunder nearly unprecedented in living memory.

Speaking of plunder, copper coins had been flung to the sea or placed in the holds of the most poorly-crafted vessels; such was the availability of gold and silver. More wealth than any ten men might have ever seen was discovered in casual troves hardly hidden from any other than the happenchance observer. Even the poorest of brigands thought himself as rich as any prince.

The Iron Prince, however, had concerns greater than his personal wealth – he would be entitled to whatever sum he chose to claim as the leader of the fleet anyway. Theon slipped from Admiral Lefford's former bed, and stretched as the sunlight poured across his naked frame.

There was a knock at his door. Muttering to himself, he glanced back at the stirring of the still occupied bed, who's other occupant uttered forth a short epithet announcing her displeasure.

Theon drew a robe about himself, red silk lined with ermine, and pulled at the latch, and swung the door wide open, only to be taken in yet another bear hug. _Uncle Victarion._ He was honestly a little sore following his big uncle's disproportionate number of bone-crushing embraces in the past couple days. He forced a smile. "Uncle."

Victarion Greyjoy grinned. "Nephew." He peered past him, and his eyes locked on the length of feminine leg now sticking out from beneath the coverlets. "Oh? I see you've availed yourself of the…plunder."

Theon chuckled sheepishly. "Aye. The Lady Cerenna Lannister, Ser Daven's sister, and the niece of Lord Tywin's late wife, as I've been reliably informed." And she had been quite the lioness, both in fighting off unwanted suitors and, more recently, taking the Iron Prince to bed. She was the golden-haired, green-eyed beauty typical of the family, and had soon taken a twisted pleasure in fucking the victorious Ironborn prince right back. _Perhaps not so much twisted as...natural,_ Theon thought.

Victarion doubled over with a sudden fit of laughter. "Quite the conqueror you've become, lad." He reached down and tugged a letter from out behind his belt. "This came for you. It's addressed from your Stark friend."

Theon eagerly snatched it from his uncle and tore it open. His eyes scanned across the little paper, widening with every new line. When he finished, his gaze flitted back to Victarion. "Uncle. King Stark informs me that Tywin Lannister has turned for King's Landing. It seems Stannis Baratheon has killed his brother, taken Storm's End, and is now bent on taking the capital."

Victarion coughed. "Is he serious? Does he know what this means?"

"It means, Uncle, that there are but fifteen thousand partially-trained Westermen remaining between us and the Northmen." Theon's eyes were alight. "Uncle. We defeat this army, and Casterly Rock is left undefended. Lord Tywin can only field thirty thousand men, and they will be locked in battle with Stannis. The armies of the North, the Trident, and the Iron Islands will be left virtually unopposed." He waited for this to sink in.

The Commander of the Iron Fleet took it up instantly. "Lad, we can win the war in a single stroke! When we take the Rock, the Lannisters will be trapped in the Crownlands."

Theon smiled suddenly. "That's not it, Uncle. Robb took Harrenhal. The Mountain and his thousand-man garrison joined with Tywin, and the Riverlords have retaken the citadel." He paused. "It turns out that Arya Stark had been among the prisoners, somehow."

That brought a raised eyebrow from Victarion. "I'm sure that girl will have a tale or three to tell."

His nephew nodded. "Aye. And that's not the end of it. It seems Robb decided to marry some Westerman lord's daughter that he broke in after the fight at Oxcross."

Victarion chuckled. "Good for him. Though, I suppose his lords will be rather upset about where he'll be sheathing his sword from here onward."

"Speaking of which…" Theon cast a meaningful look back over his shoulder. "I'm a bit occupied with affairs of state, Uncle. The negotiations have been very…strenuous."

The elder Greyjoy man simply shook his head and ducked back into the hall. "Best of luck to you, lad. And be sure to keep up your strength. It wouldn't do to overwork yourself."

Sliding the door shut softly behind him, Theon turned back to his "guest". He tilted his head to the side, eyeing his captive openly. She was rather lovely, as rumor said all of that self-same family was. He'd seen the Queen Regent, Cersei, at thee feast in Winterfell. _She _had been a gorgeous woman, though a brother-fucker. Still, his cock twitched for the day they would storm Maegor's Holdfast. Theon had a reputation to maintain, after all. _Perhaps my sword of steel wouldn't remain the only Lionsbane, _he reflected with a rather wistful air.

He shook himself from his thoughts, and remembered the fresh girl sitting in his bed at the moment. When his eyes roamed her form, he supposed it was easy to imagine Queen Cersei in front of him. He leapt onto the bed, and flung back the coverlets, revealing her young, nubile figure. Her chest was moderately full, and so rather well-developed for her age. Pink nipples tipped her perky breasts, and her stomach was smooth. The Iron Prince's hands found themselves drawn to Cerenna's soft, silky skin, and he felt himself stiffen as his eyes reached the nest of golden curls just above that tight cunt of hers. She responded with a soft gasp, and emerald eyes caught dark ones. Their gazes locked, Theon pushed back his robe, and sat back on his knees, straddling her legs aand rising over her in glorious nudity. He felt his manhood throbbing against his thigh, and their stare broke as Cerenna recognized this too. One tiny hand groped along his length, fingers grasping the long, narrow shaft. A low growl of pleasure emanatted from his throat, and he roughly spread apart her legs. Cerenna in turn wrapped them about his waist as he pressed himself against her little slit. As Theon slid into her, she began gasping little endearances. He quickly forgot all about the war and other problems as he plowed the field before him.

* * *

That day Theon would receive two letters. His first had beeen delivered by his uncle in good spirits.

The second found him after he had joined his uncle down by the wharf. There was quite a disturbance brewing, and so Theon had pelted off into the thick of things as usual.

Angry Ironborn clogged the docks, though most were quick to make way for their visiting royalty. In the midst of them, however, the was a space around the prone form of a man. The wood around him was soaked red with blood, and the corpse looked as though he had been mauled by a...

_Lion, _Theon thought. _Will they never know when they've been beaten?_ He frowned down at the shredded man, and realized he had absolutely no idea who the fellow was. Well, he would make it his business. He cleared his throat, and those around him hurriedly shut up their neighbors. "I want the men responsible for this. Clearly, gentlemen, you've been far too lenient." He turned to a sailor at random. "You. We'll need a pyre here by nightfall."

The man blinked, "What fer? Yer 'Ighness."

Theon locked gazes with the man, until his cowardice or Theon's reputation forced him to break away. Possibly both. "I want every man of military age brought down here. For every minute there are no confessions of their sins, one will be fed to the flames."

That brought him a lot of terrified looks. Execution by cremation was possibly the greatest dishonor an Ironborn could suffer in death, as his spirit would be cursed to wander the earth for eternity.

Needless to say, any nay-sayers quickly began to take him seriously.

* * *

His uncle found him a few moments later. He nearly bulled Theon over in his haste to press a crumpled parchment in his hand. Victarion Greyjoy simply said, "Read."

More than a little alarmed, Theon quickly read its contents. "It's from Uncle Aeron. He says...Euron is back?" Theon looked up. His considerably closer uncle was positively twitching in barely suppressed rage. "Damn me. I never would have thought..."

Victarion interrupted him. "There's more, Theon."

That was troubling. Normally, his uncle would have never called him by name. Hesitantly, he finished it. His eyes were wide as the broad side of a longship by the time he'd finished. Quietly, he asked, "Uncle. Is this true."

The Commander of the Iron Fleet sighed heavily. "As near as I can tell it is." His gaze seemed to stretch out to sea and beyond the horizon, reaching for home. "What is your command, Your Grace?"

The _Iron Victory_'s boatswain jerked upright, before laughing aloud. He called out, "Captain, your nephew ain't a king yet."

Theon murmured coolly, "Aye, I am. Balon Greyjoy is dead."

* * *

It had seemed so easy, at the time. He was supposed to have been nothing more than a puffed-up rooster, a lamb in wolves' clothing.

Asha had never expected her brother to survive the trap in Lannisport, and when she heard that he would be returning to claim the Seastone Chair, she knew it was time to seek her fortunes elsewhere. With Euron's prodigal status being overturned and Theon sailing for Pyke just as quickly as he could, there really was little hope for the Kraken's Daughter.

But she could still ruin her brother, if indirectly.

And that was how Asha Greyjoy found herself looking out upon the Stony Shore. With her were the last of her own devoted captains, and her very own crew. A rather depleted following, but a considerable one still. Tristifer Botley's demise had not aided her. Most were aware that he was her lapdog, and it was he who had made the attempt on the life of the Iron Prince. Few were unable to connect the dots. As for the Maid...Qarl's death had caused her little pain. She had resolved not to weep for him, failure that he was, and had not. She was _not _some dainty, fainting Greenlander woman. She was Ironborn, and the Daughter of the Kraken.

So. Things were not in complete shambles. Something could still be salvaged. All it would need would be a great victory, something that Theon's capture of Lannisport would look like the raiding of a village beside.

And she knew how to do it, too. A bare mile from Torrhen's Square, Asha already could see the path to ruining her "beloved" brother.

After all, why should they settle for so measly a prize as the West when the North, half the continent, was up for grabs?


	6. Chapter 5

**Isabelle of the Greenwood: **I'm certainly glad you have, and thank you for your continued following. As for the other…while I do not have a talent nearly so great as that of G.R.R.M., I hope that, with time, I can grow into a writer that you can love to hate for what he'll do to his story.

**Darksnider05: **The point was, if it was not quite clear enough, was that remaining there would put Asha between a rock and a hard place – after all, she'd already attempted to murder Theon, and Euron is, as noted, insane in the membrane.

**Wassersaeufer: **I think that the only fitting thing to do is to hate loving them. However, the moral ambiguity of this universe, and the existence of forces far darker than the typical Ironborn male is what justifies my obsession.

**Harrylee94: **Well, hearing about your newfound passion for my own meager talent did make my day, so, thank you! As for the other...well, methinks you found it well enough on your own.

**Erlkonig: **I'm honored to have the Jarl Konig as one of mine own readers. Or would you prefer Ealdorman? Either way, I appreciate the compliment. As for the other, well, Stern Stannis has a habit of cropping up where he's not wanted nor expected. Like a bad rash.

And without further ado, I give you...

-TFOTN

Chapter Five

"Damn that boy!"

A ram thudded against the hastily barricaded East Gate of Lannisport. Cursing himself for not having held on to a few more ships, Dagmer Cleftjaw waved his axe in the direction of the collapsing barrier. "You men! Steady the gate. If it falls, we'll have Lannisters up to our ears!"

The exhausted Ironborn forced themselves to move. Dagmer inwardly groaned. The Greyjoys had departed the harbor the morning previous, sailing for Pyke and the wayward brother. So, they had left Dagmer with 30 ships, and five thousand or so sturdy warriors. His lookouts reported that Daven Lannister commanded at least fifteen thousand, and all outfitted with the best Lannister gold could buy.

The only thing that had saved the Ironborn so far had been Ser Daven's reluctance to attack at any point other than the East Gate. That or perhaps they had only a single ram. Dagmer didn't know, and didn't particularly care so long as it remained that way.

A man atop the walls called back, "Raise shields!"

The warning came a moment before a cloud of arrows descended over the gate, slamming into the wooden shields of the most aware or lucky soldiers. Those less prepared dropped to the ground, cursing or dying as the goose-feathered shafts found their marks.

Dagmer swore then that when he survived this, he was going to give the boy one hell of a beating.

But then the gate beams cracked, men in Lannister livery started to hack their way through the ruined wood, and he had more important things on his mind than disciplining his king.

* * *

As the bucking Kraken beneath her howled out his pleasure, Cerenna Lannister felt the Iron King stiffen, before reaching his moment of release and filling her with his seed. Breathless, she rolled off of him into the tangled bedding at his side, and idly ran fingers across his heaving chest, her partner likewise winded. She was sore, but pleasantly so, and wondered at the abandon with which she had copulated with him.

Cerenna took a moment to study this man, the reaver of Lannisport and her erstwhile captor. At first she had fought him tooth and nail, bloodying his nose in her efforts to retain her virtue. However, once the deed was done she had decided it really hadn't been as bad as it was made out to be. _In fact, _she reflected with an amused tilt, _it was rather pleasant._

However, she was a Lannister, and her uncle tolerated no fools. She knew her only value as a captive was in her marriageability, and few lords of note would take a ruined bride. Still, being ravaged by the handsome, victorious prince hadn't been _all _bad. Maybe being his concubine would be better than being forced to pop out mewling brat after mewling brat for a man thrice her age.

Rolling over onto her stomach, the Lioness of Lannisport planted a not-so-chaste kiss on Theon's lips. "Your Grace. You should be warned. Even the Kraken can be devoured by a Lion."

And as Theon felt those full lips wrap around the bulbous end of his member, he knew it to be true.

* * *

When Theon finally stumbled out on deck, he made his way quickly to Victarion's side. Without looking at him he asked, "Uncle. Are you with me?"

Victarion glanced down at his nephew. "I am, lad. That is, Your Grace."

He wasn't able to laugh at that. "What are we to do, Uncle? I doubt your brother has any intention of begging for his life, and I don't suppose he'd return from exile only to sail away again."

His uncle frowned. "I'm not certain, lad. I let Euron live after dishonoring me because I could not bear to be named a kinslayer. But, there is little doubt that he did indeed end Balon. I see no other course that does not end with his head detached from his shoulders."

Theon sighed. "There is also the matter of Asha. Her cutthroats tried to kill me, and yet…" He grinned ruefully. "I suppose Uncle that ere the week is out we will both be cursed in the eyes of god and man."

Victarion laughed mirthlessly. "Let them. They will either kneel or die."

"Aye. Though, perhaps we should first claim justice for my father, and my throne."

* * *

The fleet arrived in Lordsport. There was but a lone man to greet them: Theon's other uncle, Aeron Damphair. As the _Iron Victory _was tied down, he waved towards his brother and nephew, looking extremely worried. This was rather alarming, as if there ever was a man in control of himself, it was the Damphair.

He clasped Victarion's arm as he drew close, and bowed stiffly to Theon. Cutting off his nephew's greeting, he said gruffly, "You are the only king fit for the Islands. The Drowned God has granted me clarity in this. The Crow's Eye laughs at the gods, and would abandon the old ways altogether. There is madness in him, and you must be the one to end it." He took from beneath his garb a flask and murmured, "Kneel."

Theon did so, closing his eyes. He felt water trickling over his head, and a droplet escaped across his face, wetting one lip. It had the salty bitterness of sea water, as was appropriate. Aeron intoned, "Thus I anoint you Theon Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands, Reaver of the Seas, Lord of the Tides, and Servant of the Drowned God. Rise, and claim your throne."

King Theon rose and bellowed, "What is dead can never die, but rises again, harder and stronger!" He drew Lionsbane, and held it up for all to see. Men were crowding the decks of nearby vessels, and many more had simply come ashore to witness this. He turned to his uncles. "We ride for Pyke. Your brother will not escape justice. Not again. And to hell with kinslaying. He murdered my father, your king."

Aeron nodded slowly, in approval. "As you say, Your Grace."

To Victarion he said, "Uncle. As fast as is possible, I want two thousand men ashore and ready for a fight. He already enthrones himself in the Seastone Chair, comfortably ensconced within Pyke. It is unlikely he will give it up without a fight."

This left the Lord Captain rather displeased. "You would have us lay siege to our own castle? And how? I don't happen to have any rams or large catapults on hand, unless you have a few I'd failed to notice?"

Scowling, Theon snapped, "All right, all right." Taking a breath, he replied calmly, "We'll establish our strategy once we see what we're really dealing with."

Victarion recovered some semblance of restraint, and colored slightly in embarrassment. "As you say, Your Grace."

* * *

A few hours later, after the entire force had marched across the rocky island, Theon and his uncles pulled up at the entrance to the gatehouse. Pyke was a deathtrap for any attacking army. Once it had been a great fortress built into the cliff face of the island for which it had been named. Now, after centuries of wind, rain, and the splash of the sea, most that remained were a number of pillars of rock upon which individual towers, built like castles themselves, stood. They were connected by rope bridges that were rickety even at the best of times.

And Theon meant to secure passage to the central tower by any means necessary.

When the trio and a few of the more martially skilled sailors reached the Gatehouse Tower, Victarion called out, "Open in the name of the Iron King!"

To the immense surprise of the party, the gates swung open. A pair of men in Greyjoy livery stepped forward. One took the reins from the hands of each of the Greyjoy men, while the other said in a smooth, self-important voice, "My Lords. His Grace awaits you."

Victarion leapt down from his roan and brought a great plate boot into the servant's knee. The fellow collapsed, and began to cry out in a mixture of pain and alarm, but the Iron Captain didn't stop there. He brought his foot around in a heavy arc, colliding with the side of the man's head. He was silent and did not so much as stir. When it became obvious the servant would not be rising again, Theon asked in a falsely sweet voice, "_Who _is waiting for us, praytell?"

The man with the horses cringed, considered giving an answer, but took one glance at Victarion Greyjoy's armored foot and simply fled. Aeron remained passive throughout the entire exchange, as though nothing about it seemed particularly out of the ordinary. Theon supposed it likely wasn't, around a man like Victarion.

And just like that, the Captain, the Priest, and the King went to confront Euron Crow's Eye, the mad sheep who should have stayed separated from the flock.

* * *

The first thing Theon probably should have noticed were the inordinate number of guards, or perhaps the way a pair of them stepped behind the party and blocked the only exit from the hall, but he had eyes only for the Seastonbe Chair; more importantly, the person who occupied it.

Euron Crow's Eye, Balon Greyjoy's little brother and almost assured murderer. The man who had cuckolded his other brother and now thought to usurp his nephew. The Driftwood Crown sat lightly upon his brow, and he reclined upon Theon's throne as though he hadn't a concern in the world.

Theon could remember only a little of this uncle. He had recalled him to be a dark, slender man, not so physically dominant in appearance as, say, Victarion, but a man who radiated danger. He also was very skilled with a blade, if his memories served him correctly. And everyone said Euron was mad as a hatter. _This should be…interesting._

His hand brushed across Lionsbane's pommel, fingers working into the rough leather of the hilt for reassurance. He glanced to his right and left, and saw Aeron and Victarion flanking him. Behind him, their escort fanned out across the room, eyeing the other guards warily.

Theon took a deep breath, before stepping forward before the dais and fixing Euron with a stare that might have done old Balon proud. "Uncle," he said, voice reverberating throughout the otherwise silent room, "Welcome home."

If Euron was impressed, it didn't show. As far as he was concerned, Theon might not have existed. His lips parted into a sinuous smile, though, when he made eye contact with Victarion. "Little brother," he breathed, "so good to see you again, after so long."

Victarion rather carelessly spat in answer, and the projectile happened to land on one of Euron's boots. For his part, he showed a remarkable level of restraint, all things considered.

Glancing down at the spittle with distaste, the Crow's Eye shook his head sadly, as if disappointed in a child, and jerked his head around sharply to look upon Aeron. "Do you too have no greeting for your long-lost brother?"

The Damphair folded arms across his chest and beard tangled with seaweed. "You are no kin of mine, murderer."

Euron's face darkened to the point where it might be likened to a thundercloud. "You should take care in your accusations of guilt, Aeron. Your king might be in such an indulgent mood for long."

Victarion spoke for the first time. "Quite. And you seat yourself upon his throne, _brother."_

"Uncle Euron. I believe you wear my crown," Theon said quietly. "I'm sure it was an honest mistake, and will take that into account before I pass judgment." He held out a hand. "You may relieve yourself of my duties."

The Crow's Eye swept his gaze over the trio and scoffed, "For true? You would make this boy your king?"

Aeron Damphair nodded, his confidence obvious. "He is the clear choice. A proven warrior, the true heir, and one who honors the Drowned God."

Victarion grinned. "Boy he may be, he still slew the Kingslayer in single combat."

"You would pass judgment upon me, nephew? You wish to be a king?"

Theon shook his head, "I do not _wish _anything. I _am _the Iron King, and the throne is mine."

A wicked smile crossed his face. "Very well then, _Your Grace._ I demand a trial by combat."

Victarion and Aeron exchanged uncertain glances. To say Euron was no pushover was an understatement.

"I would not be a kinslayer, Euron."

Euron winked, "If His Grace fears to face me, I'm certain he can follow the Greenlander way and name a champion."

"Enough! If you wish to die by my hand, Uncle, then I shall oblige you!" Theon seethed with anger. To suggest he was a craven? _Forget the curse. He cannot be permitted to live._

* * *

The morning had come. Today, he would become a kinslayer and secure his throne. _Or die trying, _Theon thought bitterly.

Banishing thoughts of his own untimely demise, tied up the front of a sturdy black leather jerkin, emblazoned with the Greyjoy kraken.

With his sword belt buckled around his waist, stepped out from his cabin. He had awoken alone, Cerenna Lannister having apparently abandoned him ere he rose.

Still, it was as fine a day as any on the island of Pyke, which was to say that it was dark, dreary, dank, and everything stank of fish and shit. _Home, sweet home._

He ate with his uncles in silence. Cerenna brought him a hunk of stale bread in a bowl alongside a small fish, and stood back to watch him emotionlessly with those predatory, emerald eyes.

Victarion slipped him a horn of mead, and he knelt to accept the blessing of the Drowned God from the Damphair. _I pray this is the last water I am anointed with today, _Theon thought and the sea salt trickled down from his hair, and he tasted the salt upon his lips.

And that was how he found himself standing in a small stretch of pasture outside of Lordsport. A small crowd had gathered to watch: the captains of the Iron Fleet, Lord Botley and his surviving sons, Ser Harras Harlaw and Lord Harlaw, called the Reader, as well as a number of others, each accompanied by their wives, household troops, and thralls.

Victarion pulled him aside in order to impart some last minute advice. "Euron is an accomplished bladesman. He's fast, and will exploit anything he sees as a weakness. Don't give him a chance to kill you, nor let any to kill him escape. He won't avail you with the same charity."

"What have I to fear from this one, Uncle?" Theon asked with a forced grin. "I've already cut down the most able swordsman in Westeros."

The Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet looked as though he wanted to say something further, but decided better of it and simply clasped his nephew's arm, before walking away to join Aeron.

The Damphair called for silence, and for the two combatants to step forward. Theon made to meet Euron in the middle, but felt a hand at his shoulder. He spun to see Cerenna standing there. She leaned forward, and murmured, "Do try not to get killed, Your Grace."

Theon grinned. "Why, could it be the Lady Lannister cares for her captor?"

She fixed him with an icy stare. "I simply mean your company is more desirable than that of, say, your first mate." She smiled then. "I suppose you could say that, of all your murderous friends, I find you the least repugnant."

He snorted. "I don't recall giving you permission to leave the ship, girl."

Cerenna directed a meaningful glance over his shoulder. "Don't you have something else you're supposed to be doing right now?"

"Aye…I'll return in a moment. I expect you to be waiting for me." He turned on his heel and strode towards the center of the gathered crowd, where a small clearing had formed for the Greyjoy men.

Euron greeted him with a mocking bow. "Quite a lovely girl," he said, a malicious light in his eyes. "I shall enjoy making her scream, lascivious cunt that she is. Much like dear Victarion's little lady wife."

"It'll be difficult to do that, once I mount your head upon my walls for the sport of crows." Theon's hand rose to rest against his sword hilt and slid it upwards slowly, baring a few inches of steel.

The Crow's Eye blinked, before drawing his own blade. "What a foolish boy you are."

Lionsbane whipped out into the open, and Theon raised it overhead, settling into a high guard. The Damphair hurriedly backed away and stood with his brother; it seemed there would be no ceremony.

Euron lazily whipped his sword out in a slow arc, tip lashing out for his throat. Theon jerked back, and stumbled as his foot caught against a loose outcropping of rock.

Cursing his luck and the general shittiness of the land on Pyke, the only surviving son of Balon Greyjoy recovered his balance. Euron, though, was doubled over with laughter. "How is it that you ever survived adolescence, boy? I'm surprised you can go anywhere while not led by your mother's apron strings!"

Ignoring the man's taunts, Theon focused on searching for an opening. Any opening. But his stance was sound and his movements were fluid. The damned man was toying with him!

With his tightening grip around Lionsbane's leather-bound hilt, Theon lashed out, blade destined for Euron's knee with wicked intent. The castle-forged steel sang as it clanged against the casually redirected blade of the Crow's Eye. With that, Euron apparently had enough, and so it began in earnest.

Back and forth they struck, blade clashing against blade, and spinning back towards the other's unprotected side. It was a different sort of dance, and one infinitely more deadly. As the duel wore on, Theon felt the strain on his arms increase ever so slightly with each new strike and counter. Sweat dripped from his brow, sand his breathing came raggedly. He grunted when his grip on Lionsbane slipped, and he lost his secure hold on the hilt, which was slick with perspiration. Euron battered him back, and his blade slid past Theon's guard, leaving him with a deep gash along his side, and claimed first blood.

_Drip, drip, drip…_

Theon knew it was the sound of his life trickling away. Every step he took grew more agonizing. His flank was on fire, and he left a trail of blood in his wake. Red surrounded the edges of his already hazy vision, and his heart felt like it was pounding against his skull. Soon it was all he could do to turn back Euron's casual strikes. His uncle seemed content to watch him suffer and make what Theon was sure was a miserable showing.

The worst part was, he knew _they _were watching, and were probably horrified. He had worked so hard, done so much to try to win their confidence, respect, and even affection, that he should fail his uncles now, when they had stretched their necks over the chopping block for him…

He couldn't let Euron win. To do so would spell disaster for his family, the war, for Robb. That was to say nothing of the fact that he would be dead, too.

And so, he lowered his guard, leaving his arms hanging at his sides, sword but loosely clenched in his right hand. He tried to banish some amount of fatigue, and bent over as if gasping for breath. His eyes, though, stared up from beneath nearly closed eyelids, fixed on Euron.

The Crow's Eye stepped deftly forward, seeing Theon's apparent exhaustion as good as any admission of defeat. He brought up his blade slowly, and raised it high overhead, hilt first, as though preparing to drive the tip deep into his nephew's skull.

That was all Theon needed.

He abruptly leapt forward, driving his shoulder into Euron's stomach and knocking both him from his feet and the air from his lungs. He hacked brutally downwards with Lionsbane's edge, chopping into his sword arm and cleaving through both flesh and bone. Theon then hopped back, sword bright red and dripping with arterial blood.

His uncle was cursing and bellowing, holding up his mangled wreck of an arm. Lionsbane had sheared partway through the forearm, leaving a jagged ruin in its place. His hand flopped uselessly, nerves and vessels alike severed. Howling in pain, Euron fell writhing to the ground.

As Theon stumped towards his fallen foe, he fell face-first into the stony field. His hand clutched at his side, and his vision swam with black dots. But the trial would not be over until one of them was dead. Forcing himself to his knees, he waddled over to where the maimed Crow's Eye thrashed. Taking Lionsbane in his hand, he whispered, "For my father." The point drove home into Euron's heart, and pierced the frenetically pounding vessel, and the flailing man fell still.

When Theon withdrew his blade from Euron's chest, blood poured out of the wound as the ruined muscle tried in vain to cause lifeless limbs to move. Finally, it too stopped, and Theon sank to his haunches. He looked around at the surrounding Ironborn, and Victarion rushed to his aid. He, with a surprising gingerness, helped the young king to his feet.

Aeron seized the moment to shout, "The champion of the Drowned God is victorious! Euron Crow's Eye was a murderer, and perpetrated regicide no less! He is doubly damned in the sight of the Drowned God. He shall be accorded no honor in the hereafter." He clapped his hands together, summoning a number of thralls carrying pitchers of oil a bundles of thatch. The wood was piled about the corpse, and was liberally bathed with the oil. Aeron took a torch handed to him and declared, "He is found lacking! He will find no peace in death!" With that, the Damphair tossed it into the pyre, catching it alight in a sudden burst of flame, causing a number of the bystanders to step back from the intensity of the heat.

Theon was busy fighting off a fussing maester, who insisted he spend some days abed, and allow him to put on the most foul-smelling of poultices. He was ready to have the man's head off when a glint of golden hair caught his eye. As he watched Cerenna Lannister approach, he relented and let the man tend his wounds. It helped that as he watched the pronounced swaying of her hips, Theon felt a familiar stirring.

When she reached where he sat, the Iron King flashed her a grin. "I'm back."

Cerenna eyed him coolly. "I see as much. Though you left a little bit behind."

"Not so much as I might have. And before you ask, no, it wasn't luck." He showed her a devilish smile. "I am just that good."

"Really?" She arched an eyebrow in mock skepticism. "You've hardly shown that anywhere else…"

Theon chuckled at that. "Aye? That's not how you acted last night. I seem to recall a name you were screaming into the bedding." He leaned forward to murmur in her ear, "It was mine, as I remember."

That earned him a smack on the shoulder, but no rebuttal. Cerenna settled down at his side, resting her head upon his shoulder. He responded by wrapping an arm about her waist, and pulling her tight up against his waist. With a cocky air that was oh so characteristic of him, Theon said quietly, "Everything is going to turn out all right."

* * *

They all looked upon her with hate in their eyes, she knew. But for the moment, fear kept that in check. And hope.

Hope that she might yet let the Northern peasants live.

Asha's smile curdled the blood of even the most dark-hearted killers there, like Black Lorren. Still, orders were orders, and he was not about to question his captain while she was in one of these moods.

It was one of these self-same moods that had brought them to the Starks' fortress of Winterfell.

The older one was not much of a surprise. Silent, austere, and grim, he stared right back at each of the men in turn until the blade came down upon his neck, parting adolescent head from crippled body.

The boy, barely more than a babe, fought like a wildling. He even managed to bite the thumb of one of his captors off of his hand, severing bone and flesh altogether, before one of the fools thought to knock the brat's teeth out.

He died spitting and cursing, using words Asha thought it was unlikely he even knew the meanings of.

The Stark boys Bran and Rickon were displayed above the gate, their heads mounted on spikes, but to those who had known them, there was no doubt of their identity. There was even a pair of skinned wolves to accompany them.

As Asha rode away from the smoking ruins of Wintertown, she tugged her black, shaggy wolf pelt closer about her shoulders. The Greyjoy banner had been planted amidst it all, the Kraken feasting in the slaughter. The commander of the garrison, Ser Rodrik Cassel, had ridden to Torrhen's Square upon hearing of its fall. He would return to find the castle empty save for the butchered remains of its people and the crow-picked skulls of his charges. Even the girl, Beth Cassel, who had tried to keep Asha's reavers from finding little Rickon Stark, had been put to the sword.

_Beware, little brother, _Asha thought, a hint of something approaching madness in her thoughts. _This is only the beginning._


	7. Chapter 6

**FanofASOIAF:** I won't lie, I've never been a fan of Asha Greyjoy. I really saw her more as the villain of the piece, much more so than Theon. In canon, I feel he was pushed to do what he did out a misplaced desire to please a father who sacrificed him to keep his own hide intact. Asha did nothing to discourage this behavior by becoming the "model heir" and going out of her way to encourage Theon's appearance as weak in Balon's eyes. While that doesn't really excuse his actions in Winterfell prior to its sack, I think we can see a pretty clear inner decency in Theon, even in canon. Plus, there's always the "at least he's not as bad as…" (Ramsay Snow) argument.

That may be profound truth, or the rebuttal of a raving lunatic. Possibly both.

As for the other…Given the distinct lack of information on the number of various Lannister relations, I kinda took it upon myself to create a younger Cersei, minus the incestuous relationship and desire to be a man. Or, my vision of a less crazy version of her, at least. The other clear choice for a romantic relationship with a Lannister relation was Joy Hill, and I don't know how well you all would respond to your hero raping a twelve year-old girl. But thanks for reading!

**Wassersaeufer: **For comments on Asha, refer to the above. As for the other, well…People do stupid things for love. (I.E., Robb, unless you subscribe to the theory that the Spicer mother was actually a witch who gave him some form of love potion that made him make the beast with two backs with Jeyne Westling. But that's a topic for another time. To answer your actual speculation…

Read on?

**Guest: **I love the username. Very original. :P

And, Oh yes I did! As for events in the True North, I have always enjoyed the politicking and humbuggery of the South a little more. Still, one cannot have a story including Robb without roping Jon into it somehow. Or maybe you can.

**Harrylee94: **So many things right there that I can't really address them all without really irritating other readers. So, I'll simply say this: thanks for a raving review! Oh, speaking of Robb and Theon… :D

Chapter Six

Dagmer Cleftjaw cursed as he peered over the battlements. Behind him lay the ruins of the slaughter.

They had held the city, but only just. If Ser Daven had pressed at any other point other than the East Gate…Dagmer feared they might have been overwhelmed. Instead, they left nearly half the Lannister force dead or too wounded to fight. Of the five thousand Ironmen defending the city, perhaps two and a half still lived to fight. Of course, most of those were thralls; Theon had taken most of the useful men back to Pyke with him, and most of his dead were, invariably, trained warriors.

Once the Westermen had forced entry through the ruins of the wooden gate, they were stopped in their tracks by a withering hail of arrows. The ram had been dropped, an obstacle to those who thought to gain passage.

Now, the ram had been moved by the few able-bodied men remaining, and set up so as to serve as a crude barrier. However, Dagmer doubted it would do much good. The Lannisters were, even now, assembling in fresh formations outside the city. Ser Daven knew that they would be unable to withstand another attack, something every man in Dagmer's command knew just as well.

Those too wounded to be able to fight had been carried to the ships, and guided under the careful watch of their captains for the relative safety of the sea. It was hoped that they might return to home in order to fight another day. Every ship and over a thousand of the survivors were sent home. The defenders were, to face a force of eight thousand Westermen, to have perhaps fifteen hundred men. They were entertaining a slaughter. But orders were orders.

A horn sounded, and a great shout went up. Bellows that sounded like challenges, or war shouts, rang out through the air. "Bastards can scent the blood in the air. Got their dandruff up."

Dagmer limped to the gatehouse, a bloody rag around his thigh. When he arrived, an excited watchman called down, "Sir! You've got to damn well see this!"

Grunting and cursing as he humped his way up the stone steps to the battlements, he nearly fainted on the spot when he looked into the field.

Enormous men on huge horses trampled through rank after rank of the Lannister levies and men-at-arms. Barbarians wielding greatswords and wearing the colors of some Northern House or other smashed into the center of Ser Daven's phalanx, and the order of the Westerlander army disintegrated under constant fire of crossbows carried by men in the livery of House Frey.

"Men of Salt and Iron! Now is the time! Let's kill the bastards!" Dagmer roared back at his men, equally baffled but willing to hack off a few limbs and crush a skull or three. The Ironborn poured out of the city, most hopping over the ram of clambering over it, and a few brave souls leapt from the crenellations. Only of few of them would escape without broken legs. But it didn't matter. At the sight of another force rushing towards them, the van of the besieging force broke and fled for the safety of their camp, only to be met by the banner of the Flayed Man coming to finish them. It seemed that, late or no, the Young Wolf had come to save them.

* * *

After a bare two hours of fighting, the field was covered with the dead and dying. Dagmer had found Ser Daven's still twitching corpse, the Stark banner driven into his chest. Accompanied by a pair of his crew, he determined it would be time to meet with the King in the North, and thank him appropriately for his assistance.

When he arrived at Robb Stark's hastily constructed war tent, he introduced himself to a young man on guard there. The fellow stiffened, and stepped inside. After a flurry of emphatic, whispered conversation, a voice called out, "Enter."

Dagmer did so, and was greeted with the sight of virtually every noble of the North. He supposed Robb Stark could only be the young man, more of a boy, standing at the far end of a table covered by a map of the continent. Immediately to Dagmer's left stood a man who would have dwarfed Victarion Greyjoy.

Dagmer cleared his throat. "Your Grace. Your arrival was most timely. King Theon will be-"

Stark cut him off, eyes aflame. "Your king is a murderous traitor. We do not suffer murderers to live." _What the-_

The huge man spat. "Nor the servants of traitors." Dagmer heard the sound of steel sliding against leather. He reached for his own sword, but found he couldn't. He jerked forward slightly, and looked down to see nearly a foot of steel erupting forth from his chest.

As Dagmer Cleftjaw began to feel the darkness of eternity creeping in, the last words he heard were Stark's. "Finish them all. Lannisport's streets will run red with blood once again." It looked like he wouldn't be giving the boy the beating he'd promised. Not in this life, anyway.

* * *

It had to be a mistake. It just had to be.

Theon Greyjoy, Iron King and Master of Pyke, stared down incredulously at the letter on his desk, written by a hand so familiar but in a tone so cold.

He was looking down at a declaration of war upon the Kingdom of the Iron Islands, and its promised destruction by the massed armies of the North and the Riverlands, in response to "appalling acts of treachery and sadism with malevolent intent perpetrated by the subjects of the murderer King Theon Turncloak".

Theon really wasn't sure what at least a couple of those words meant.

"Theon Turncloak?" He mused, more hurt than angry. "Robb's gone off his damned rocker, is what's happened."

And so he had. Towards the end of the letter, Theon was informed that every man he had left behind in Lannisport with Cleftjaw that had not sailed home with the wounded had been slain. Dagmer himself had been flayed and his bare corpse nailed to the eastern gatehouse's wall by Roose Bolton, with Stark's special permission. A notice had been issued that, for any captive Ironborn, the same treatment could be expected. It seemed the oldest of the Starks' mandates would be rescinded for the Lord of the Dreadfort.

Theon was just confused. He thought everyone was accounted for. All the religious zealots were fully under Aeron's control, and no one would dare defy Victarion's orders that no longships were to depart for the mainland. With the return of Dagmer's wounded, every vessel in the Islands was accounted for…

No. They weren't. Five ships had gone missing the day the Crow's Eye had returned. Asha had as well. Theon had assumed he had simply had her killed, but there had been no confirmation his sister's fate.

_It's possible, _Theon pondered, _but what could she have damn well done for Stark to dribble hi sensibilities out of his arse?_

Deciding that was a question he needed the answer to, a barely mobile Iron King descended from his chambers in the tower, seeking the maester's rookery.

As he limped through a door at the foot of a long stairwell, he almost bowled the poor fellow over.

Pyke's master was a newer fellow, the old one having been slain in one of Balon's rages. He had been reported as having drowned during a storm and the Citadel had duly sent a new one. The man was young, small, and timid; by most estimations, he was a weasel in human form. Theon had never bothered to learn his name. Still, he served his purpose.

The cowering master held a letter in one hand. "Your Grace. This arrived just a few moments ago. It was sent from the Deepwood Motte. I thought, perhaps, that you would like to see it immediately. After all, I-"

Theon silenced him with a sharp look. "That will be all, master."

The man looked as though he was going to protest, by, recalling his predecessor, thought better of it, bowed, and left post-haste.

Nearly crawling by the time he reached the top of the stairs, he heaved himself into a lightly-upholstered chair. Balon Greyjoy had not been a man of very luxurious tastes. Still, it was nice to sit. His side still throbbed, threatening to double him over in pain with every step. "Damned maester," he cursed aloud.

He quickly broke the seal, House Glover's, and scanned the contents. His face broke into an expression of pure fury. "Damn her!"

It read:

_Dear Brother,_

_ I hope you are well. It would not do for Uncle Euron to finish you before what I have planned comes to fruition. I trust, by now, your very close friend in Stark (how close is that, anyway? I'm sure he must miss you warming his bed) has reacted in a suitably unpleasant manner to your most recent depredations against his family. Tsk, tsk. Didn't Mother tell you it's impolite to murder your ally's kin, and sack his seat? No matter. Oh, and don't worry. I'm certain we'll see one another again very soon. Oh, and if you were curious, Lady Glover was all too eager to assist me in finding the words for this letter. I'm sure you'll enjoy explaining that to Stark and Lord Glover!_

_ Your loving sister,_

_ -Asha_

Theon took a closer look at the parchment. In his shock, he'd failed to notice the ink, normally black, was red. "Oh, balls." It was Lady Glover's blood.

More than a little unmanned at the thought of Asha's savagery, he blankly crumpled the missive and tossed it into the roaring fireplace. He sat there, watching the flames greedily consume the parchment, until there was nothing left save a vague impression of ash. So. He was labeled a traitor, and Robb thought him responsible for killing his bannermen, his family, and burning Winterfell to the ground. "Not a bad day's work, eh?" He laughed darkly. "Though, I might have some awkward explaining to do for Galbart and Robett Glover."

That was how, a week later, he found himself back aboard the _Iron Victory_ and bound for Seagard, where the armies of the Trident and the North were apparently gathering to exterminate the Ironborn from the face of the earth.

* * *

Every vessel imaginable, from war galleys to trading cogs and even the tiniest of fishing boats gathered in the harbor, all answering the call of King and Country. _Or gold, _Theon thought darkly. The Damphair had been left behind at Pyke, named Castellan for the duration of the war. He would see to its defense, should the Iron King fail. Theon stood upon the bow of the _Victory, _staring out at the walls of Seagard with the Commander of the Iron Fleet, Victarion. The two Greyjoy men remained there for a long time, watching as the wharf drew ever nearer.

His uncle cleared his throat, before asking in that gruff way of his, "You aren't going to keel over on us, are you?" He indicated his side. "You took a good cut there."

His nephew and king shrugged off Victarion's concern. "I'll be fine. There'd best be no damned stairs or a fight, though, or else I might have a little trouble."

"I'm not going to carry you."

Theon laughed, "Aye. I'd expected as much."

The longship thumped into the wooden docks, scraping along the bow. Victarion winced as a furrow appeared in the side of his beloved ship.

Cursing under his breath about the loss of his more competent sailors, he stepped onto the pier, Theon a step behind him. The young king grinned. "Well, Uncle. I suppose we'll see how welcome the kraken is among wolves and fish."

A man bearing the Greyjoy banner followed in their wake, and a pair of guardsmen from Pyke served as the Iron King's only escort. Theon liked to imagine he cut an imposing figure, though. His doublet was black trimmed with grey, the golden kraken upon his chest, with sturdy trousers of the same color. Lionsbane rested on his hip, and the Driftwood Crown, so recently claimed from the Crow's Eye, sat upon his brow. The tall, whipcord lean man had begun the cultivation of his approximation of a dashing goatee and mustache…much Cerenna Lannister's amusement.

Perhaps he did appear a fearsome warrior, or perhaps a fool. Theon had no idea. He hadn't seen himself in a mirror lately. Shipboard travel discouraged fragile and flammable objects being kept in holds or cabins.

His finery aside, Theon Greyjoy was nervous. It had been some time since his last meeting with Stark, and that letter had been so…outrageous? Shocking? Hurtful? _All of the above, _he thought.

The arrival of an Ironborn raider, particularly one some famous as the _Iron Victory, _could not go unchallenged for long. A knight wearing the sigil of House Mallister upon his chest approached them, accompanied by a dozen men-at-arms. He bared his blade and seemed ready to order his men to attack when Theon stepped forward, spreading his hands wide. "Is this how you greet a returning hero?"

The knight seemed dumbfounded, and simply spat. Theon saw his eyes flick back and forth between his crown and sword. That pairing could only mean… "Theon Turncloak, the Traitor King!" The knight denounced him. Still, he did not seem eager to stray too near Lionsbane's reach. "A hero? A murderer worse than the Mountain!"

Victarion did not hesitate to draw _his _steel. "You. You will bow before my nephew, Greenlander, or I will decorate the prow of my ship with your entrails as an offering to the Drowned God!"

With Victarion's admonishment, accompanied by his fearsome visage and reputation, seemed enough to chasten the Riverlander. Despite the advantage of numbers at his back.

The fellow bowed almost imperceptibly, more of a nod than anything, but he still bent. Theon Greyjoy grinned. "Very good. Now. Take me to Robb. It's about time we had a little chat."

* * *

The knight, apparently, was none less than Lord Jason Mallister himself. With his name, and his retinue, the Greyjoy party was conducted safely through the streets of Seagard, though great throngs stopped to stare with hate. None voiced any such feelings of ill-will, though, as Victarion's baleful glare seemed to silence even the most intense sense of righteous fury.

They were led to Mallister's keep. Quietly, he instructed a man to open the enormous doors, and he made his way to the great hall in silence. Pausing outside the hall, he turned to the Iron King and his uncle. He seemed ready to say something, but thought better of it after a hard look from the Iron Captain. He pushed open the doors, and called out, "My King. Victarion Greyjoy, Commander of the Iron Fleet, and…and Theon Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands."

A cacophony the likes of which had never been heard, even after the announcement of Lord Eddard's execution or the very murder of Lord Rickard Stark at the hands of Mad Aerys II in the days before the Rebellion, broke out and threatened to shake the very foundations of the fortress.

Men leapt up from where they sat, drawing swords, unsheathing belt knives, brandishing battle axes, and even some of the servants went so far as to arm themselves with various kitchen utensils.

Theon's eyes swept across the crowd, picking out familiar faces. He saw lords like Roose Bolton and Jon Umber, men he'd never been less than cordial to, seething with hatred. He saw Daryn Hornwood and Torrhen Karstark, boys who had followed him in adoration, and who now seemed to have nothing but contempt and hate in their eyes. Lords and knights who had clapped him on the back, clasped his arm heartily, and offered to share their ale with him now looked as though they'd sooner lose a limb that touch him with anything other than cold steel. But when his eyes met Stark's, all that seemed to fade away.

That Tully blue gaze fixed on his own. His friend had grown hard since Theon's departure. Whatever horrors had been done in Theon's name…_Asha will pay for this. Assuming Stark even listens._

Bellows from lords demanding his head, and the privilege of taking it, soon threatened to drown out his thoughts. He saw Robb murmur something to the Greatjon, as though he'd decided something. The enormous Lord of Last Hearth thundered, "_SILENCE!"_

The hall grudgingly grew still, though not any few men spat at the Greyjoys' feet, much to Victarion's disgruntlement.

Stark ignored him. Instead, looking directly at Theon, he said, "It's an odd thing to see a traitor bring himself into the hall of his enemy in a time of war."

"War?" So, he would play this game. "A traitor? You're mad, Stark. I killed your enemies, left your side to gather my banners, and took the heart of the West all for you. And then you butchered hundreds of my subjects and murdered one of my most senior commanders." Theon paused for breath. "And you _dare _name me a traitor? I didn't think Lord Eddard, the man we went to war for, was capable of siring an idiotic and cockless craven!"

The uproar was slightly lessened, that time. A few of the men less dedicated to Robb, and more to their liege lords, clearly had doubts. The conviction of the young Iron King's words, as well as their logic, convinced them that there probably was more to the tale than that which they knew.

But Theon's insult did not win him any friends among the Northmen. Lord Umber demanded the honor of taking the 'Greyjoy whelp's head', and Lord Glover expressed a similar sentiment. Strangely, Rickard Karstark only grinned at him. _The man probably still wants to marry me off to his daughter, _Theon thought. _What an absurd man. I thought he thought me a turncloak._

Robb leapt to his feet, his cheeks the color of the setting sun, and roared, "_You murdered Bran and Rickon, you fucking turncloak bastard!"_

Theon felt as though he had been struck by some invisible blow. The Stark boys were dead? It was true he'd never been any great friend to them, or honestly paid them any mind, but they were still good boys by most accounts. More importantly, they were the heirs to Robb's throne. "They're dead?" He asked weakly. "How? When?"

"Your men had them…had their heads mounted over the gates of Winterfell a fortnight ago," Robb answered in confusion. Theon's evident sincerity began to nag at faint suspicions growing in the backs of even the Northmen's minds. One Riverlord murmured something about it being impossible for 'that boy to be a traitor'. "What kind of sick game is this, Greyjoy?" He spat.

"Robb, you must understand. I was sailing for Pyke, to confront my uncle Euron and take back the Seastone Chair." He looked into his first friend's eyes. "I would never betray you. You were a brother to me like Rodrik and Marron never were, never could be…" He trailed off, and stood there uncomfortably. "I…I would not do such a thing. I don't know who…" He glanced over at Victarion, who spoke to Robb for the first time. "Stark. My niece, Asha Greyjoy, made an attempt upon the life of His Grace. She fled northward." He paused, and scanned the crowded hall. "Did your people see who seemed to lead the raid?"

"Aye. Ser Rodrik said it was a woman," Robb replied shortly. He affixed Theon with an stare full of pain and loathing. "Why are we talking?" He turned to Lord Bolton. "Why has my sword not been brought to me, that I might dispense my justice?"

Roose Bolton answered coolly, "Your Grace. I do not believe it to be so simple as that. I think that there may be something to what Lord Victarion is saying. Further, the boy seems rather sincere. I do not recall him being a particularly dishonorable person."

Robb fumed silently, but nodded ever so slightly.

Victarion continued, "Asha expressed some willingness to do harm to you and yours, in order to make my nephew suffer for her exile." He nudged Theon, who dug about his doublet for the letter he had gotten. "His Grace received a letter from the Deepwood Motte, before we departed. I believe its contents may be most helpful."

Victarion took it from his nephew, and handed it to a suspicious-looking Robb. He scanned the contents quickly, and without looking up handed it to Lord Glover. The Master of Deepwood Motte stared at the page in a pale-faced fury. He admitted, "Your Grace. It does appear that this was done without the Turncloak's knowledge."

This caused a considerable stirring amongst the gathered lords. A handful of the Riverlords seemed to think it a waste of time already, and that the Iron King was clearly innocent. Only Robb and the Greatjon seemed to remain resolute in the belief that Theon was a traitor.

Robb nodded sourly. "Aye." He turned to Victarion. "What guarantee do I have that this is not some fabrication of yours, Greyjoy?"

The Commander of the Iron Fleet replied, "You have none, boy, save the word of a king. That alone should be enough."

"Your Grace. I believe that it is fairly evident that Greyjoy's guilt is in doubt. Perhaps, to set all suspicion to rest, we should offer him a chance to prove his loyalty?" Roose Bolton interrupted smoothly.

Theon shot him a hard look. What was the Leech-Lord up to now?

Stark nodded slowly. "And what task did you have in mind, Lord Bolton?"

Bolton fixed Theon with a frosty grin. "Why, to treat with Joffrey and Tywin Lannister for the release of Princess Stark, and their surrender."

"Lord Tywin has little love for me, Bolton. I may have committed a crime or three against his family," Theon said with a wry grin. Jon Umber snorted at that. Apparently, the conviction of his guilt was rapidly evaporating.

Robb even seemed to be having trouble suppressing a smile. Did he really believe Theon had murdered his brothers, still?

"Aye. A habit well-established." Perhaps that had not been a grin.

Theon sighed. "Robb. I will only tell you one time more: I did _not _order the execution of Bran and Rickon." He paused, sweeping his gaze across the room, meeting several of the lords' eyes. "But if you value our brotherhood so little, so be it. But I hold it to have some measure of worth." He glanced over at his uncle, who nodded reluctantly. "My uncle and I will go to King's Landing, then, and bring your request for peace to the Lannisters."

Stark inclined his head slightly, but looked troubled. Theon was sure he was harboring serious doubts. He whispered in Victarion's ear, "Well, Uncle. We're off to the Lion's Den."


	8. Chapter 7

**Harrylee94: **Thanks for a _stark _raving-mad review! I'm pleased you've enjoyed the tale so much so far. By the way, I have a special treat. Since you were the only reviewer, I've decided to dedicate this chapter to a very special someone: me.

Enjoy!

-**TFOTN**

* * *

Chapter Seven

There had been a flurry of ravens passing back and forth between Seagard and King's Landing. Each had been addressed to Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King and Lord of Casterly Rock, and each had been answered by Kevan Lannister, the newly appointed Master of Laws. When Theon's party, accompanied by Lord Rickard Karstark and Ser Wendel Manderly for the North, and Lord Marq Piper and Tytos Blackwood for the Riverlands. Each brought with them men of their respective houses, like the white sunburst of House Karstark or the teal merman of White Harbor and House Manderly.

When the party reached Riverrun, they were instructed to stop and await a raven indicating it would be safe to continue to the capital.

While there, Theon learned much of the previous prosecution of the war. Stannis Baratheon had proclaimed himself King of Westeros and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms from his seat on Dragonstone, adopted the teachings of the Red God of the Far East, and laid siege to King's Landing. He'd nearly taken the city too, and would have were it not for the timely arrival of Tywin Lannister and the remaining armies of the West. About that same time, the Lannisters learned of their twin defeats at Oxcross and Lannisport, the deaths of Ser Stafford and Ser Daven, and the imprisonment and humiliation of other Lannister relations. (Theon was a little embarrassed but primarily amused to learn that his conquest of Tywin's niece was joked about throughout every holdfast and town south of the Neck).

However, following the fracturing of Renly Baratheon's forces, Mace Tyrell had gone to the capital. In return for his nearly hundred-thousand strong army, he had been named Master of Ships, his son Loras had been named Lord-Commander of the Kingsguard with Jaime's death, and his daughter Margaery would be married to the Lannister king.

The host of the Reach still remained encamped upon the Roseroad, as Prince Doran had called his gathered his banners at the fortress of Kingsgrave in the Prince's Pass. Despite numerous missives sent via raven to Sunspear by both sides, the Dornish had maintained a stubborn silence, much to the ire of Tywin and Robb both. The Lannister-Tyrell alliance obviously had much cementing to do, as Lord Mace refused to move so long as sixty thousand Dornishmen remained encamped so close to his lands.

No one had heard from the Vale in some time. Petyr Baelish had been sent on behalf of the Iron Throne to pursue Lysa Arryn's allegiance, but no more than that was known.

And always there were rumors of a queen with dragons and a Dothraki horde beyond the sea, coming to take vengeance on those who had dispossessed her family.

Theon wasn't sure how much mind to pay to talk of dragons, but the prospect of facing an army nearly twice the size of the entirety of the Westermen under arms at the onset of the war was frightening. His time in King's Landing could prove to be very interesting, presuming he got inside with his head attached to his neck.

Soon, the raven came, with Lord Kevan promising the safety of a delegation from the Lord of Winterfell. The party, significantly larger than that which had debarked at Seagard, set off for the Capital.

* * *

When they finally reached the end of the Kingsroad and the gate to King's Landing, Theon was sorely sick of his companions.

Weeks spent riding and subtly changing the subject when Karstark brought up the marital status of the Iron King and that of his daughter Alys was maddening enough. However, Ser Wendel proved to be a walrus-mustached fool who complained about the heat of the mild autumn air and the increasingly poor fare as the distance between intact inns grew as they traveled deeper into the devastated Riverlands. Blackwood said little, which didn't bother Theon, but after a while Marq Piper's constant conversation seemed to go nowhere save discussing the best way to kill Lannisters. Though entertaining at first, one could only spend so many hours debating whether or not decapitation was too merciful and end for a Westerlander. Victarion was little help, as he spent the entire ride struggling to contain his anger at being sent as an errand boy – one who might be killed for his message.

Theon was just spoiling for a fight. However, he had a job to do, first.

The banner of the kraken was raised above the others. A kraken with a crown. Theon hoped it would give that little shit in Maegor's holdfast something to piss himself over. Behind it rose others: the banner of the King in the North, the Tully trout, and the banners of houses Blackwood and Piper. The Karstark sunburst and Manderly merman fluttered nearby, Theon was sure.

The Goldcloak captain atop the battlements seemed nothing if not shocked. He scrambled down to the gate winch, and the gate creeped slowly open. He and half a dozen pikemen in the uniform of the City Watch stepped out cautiously. The captain cleared his throat. "The Lord Hand…sent express orders that you be escorted to the Red Keep." His eyes fixed on Theon fearfully. "Are you…are you Theon Turncloak?"

Victarion let loose a booming guffaw. Theon felt like hitting his uncle. He didn't, though. "I am Theon Greyjoy, Master of Pyke, King of the Iron Islands, and Reaver of the West. And this," he said, patting Lionsbane's hilt, "is the sword killed Jaime Lannister. Now. Take me to the Keep."

* * *

They were an impressive sight, Theon was sure. They paraded through the streets of King's Landing like conquering heroes, surrounded by throngs of smallfolk, eager to see the men who had so humiliated their masters. Men-at-arms made bawdy jokes and offered crude compliments to any woman who caught their fancy, and boasted of their deeds to any man in the uniform of the Watch.

After who knew how damned long, their escort arrived at the gates of the Red Keep. The Goldcloaks forced the lackwit guardsmen to step aside and make way for the procession. Two by two, the Ironborn, Northmen, and Riverlords filed into the Red Keep: first Theon and Victarion, then Karstark and Manderly, with Piper and Blackwood following after, and their respective standard-bearers trailing them.

As they entered the throne room, it seemed the place was already full to the bursting. Men and women in the colors of House Lannister and various houses sworn to the West thronged the walls; it seemed a mass exodus had occurred after the Greyjoy invasion. Theon saw nobles from the Reach, including Mace Tyrell himself, the fat fool. There were lords from the Crownlands, and even some of the Stormlords who had broken with Stannis or remained with Renly until his death.

Upon the Iron Throne sat Joffrey Baratheon, a tall, blond boy, slightly younger than Robb, but with a very irritating air of arrogance. Theon barely suppressed a snigger.

Glancing around, he saw the remaining members of the Lannister family: Lord Tywin, as Hand of the King, stood to his right, and Ser Kevan just beyond him. The dwarf, Tyrion, skulked somewhere in the shadows: rumor had him gravely injured, but alive. To Joffrey's left stood the Queen Regent, Cersei Lannister. Theon felt himself stir at the very sight of her, recalling nights spent imagining what it would be like to-

He shook his head slightly. _Time for that later. _

Theon happened to lay eyes upon Joffrey's queen-to-be, Margaery Tyrell. She was a very lovely girl, he thought, long brown hair and brown eyes, though not the great beauty she'd been made out to be. Still, very pretty.

He heard a sharp cry from the audience, and turned to see a whirl of skirts and the flash of auburn Tully hair. A knight in the white of the Kingsguard quite ungently returned her to her place with the royal family.

Sansa Stark was looking as beautiful as ever, though she looked none too happy to see him. Waves a rage and pain radiated across her lovely face, until she regained her composure and maintained an icy calm. Still, Theon thought, if looks could kill, he would be a dead man.

Joffrey seemed to take some perverse delight in keeping his former bride-to-be nearby. A petty crime among monstrous ones, to be sure.

A hush came over the gathered nobility as they suddenly became aware of their presence. Theon could feel the weight of the eyes upon him as the collective gaze swept from the banners to the Driftwood Crown, to Theon himself, and finally to Lionsbane resting at his hip. He stepped forward, his uncle slightly to the side, and drew Lionsbane, sliding the steel from its sheath, and set its tip against the cold stone floor, resting his hands upon the pommel. Theon grinned, then, and the Iron King thought the Lannisters might faint from fright.

Cersei immediately raised a finger and screeched, "_KILL HIM!" _

Theon's earlier arousal quickly dissipated. _What a bitch, _he thought sourly.

However, in the face of her demand, he remained perfectly still. Despite their great number, none of the lords or even the knights of the Kingsguard dared move. That was the blade that had ended the old Lord Commander, after all.

Ser Kevan quickly headed her off. "Enough of that! These men have come under a banner of peace. We will not affront the laws of both gods and men."

"This _peacemaker _killed my brother, your nephew, burned Lannisport to the ground, and even now passes Cerenna around for the amusement of his blackguards, and you wish to _talk?!_" Cersei screamed, seeming ready to tear out her hair by the roots.

Tywin stepped in, eyes and voice colder than the heart of a winter night. "You will be silent." He shot Joffrey a pre-emptive glare, cowing any foolish outburst from him. "Your Grace. I will handle this."

Joffrey squirmed under his grandfather's scrutiny, but otherwise said nothing, folding his arms and falling into a sullen pout. Cersei, amazingly, seemed to react in a similar fashion.

Tywin's gaze flicked back to the rebel delegation. For a long time, he did nothing but stare Theon in the eyes. He did his best to hold it, and was almost relieved when he spoke. "So," he said, in a voice barely above a whisper, but that could clearly be heard in every ear in the throne room, "you are the infamous Theon Turncloak, King of the Iron Islands, Ravager of the West, and," he added, a dangerous glint in his eyes, "the wielder of 'Lionsbane'."

A slow smile crossed Theon's face. "Aye," he replied, "Lionsbane is my blade." He offered a sweeping, mocking bow to Joffrey. "Your Grace," he said, barely suppressing the laughter in his voice, "my compliments. I bid you greetings, from one monarch to another."

Joffrey blinked, apparently unused to such acknowledgement. "Greyjoy." His tone was one of wary surprise. "You've caused a lot of trouble for my Grandfather."

"Have I?" Theon inquired playfully. "That's unfortunate. It appalls me to think that my presence could be anything less than pleasant."

The normally unreadable and stoic plane of Lord Tywin's face trembled slightly, as though he were repressing a scowl. _He must be uncommonly angry._ Kevan hurriedly stepped in. "Your Grace. I believe we were to discuss the very criminal acts committed by the Greyjoys: who are, in point of fact, rebelling against the rule of your Crown."

"And why are you wearing a crown anyway, Greyjoy?" Joffrey whined. "I am the only king in Westeros!"

"Actually…" Theon began, and raised one hand. "There is you. Me." He ticked off two fingers. "Stark. And the Baratheon brothers. Five Kings." His hand was open now, every digit extended. "Well, Stern Stannis saw to the good king Renly, so…" He retracted his thumb. "Now, I never paid much attention to the Stark's maester when I was supposed to be learning my sums, but that looks an awful lot like four." Theon paused. "Should I count them aloud for Your Grace?"

That brought a gentle titter from the gathered nobility. He even saw the little lady Tyrell hiding a smile. Theon winked, and the Rose Queen blushed to the roots of her brown hair.

The Lions were not so amused. Tywin, legend told, could not abide the laughter of others, and the insolence this boy spawned by pirates, who had killed his elder son, was showing had him virtually chomping at the bit to wrap his hands about Theon's neck and have done with it. Cersei managed to maintain an icy calm, as though she were unaware of his presence altogether. Joffrey, though, was livid. Having finally figured out the whole discussion was a barb aimed at him, and not having missed the Iron King's blatant flirtation with his betrothed, the boy-king rose from the Iron Throne quickly…and yelped as he cut himself on the ancient edges of one of the swords constituting the enormous steel seat. _A man unworthy of the throne shall spill his blood upon it, _Theon thought. Blood welled from a rent in his sleeve. He hissed in pain, and a nearby servant offered a handkerchief. The King of Westeros snatched it angrily, and pressed it to his 'wound', apparently fighting back tears.

Theon took the opportunity to continue. "So, Your Grace, it is evident that you are not the only monarch reigning in the Seven Kingdoms. However, I have come from Robb Stark, King in the North and of the Trident and the West with the authority of his plenipotentiary." Lord Karstaark snorted in amusement, as Robb had certainly done no such thing, but the Lannisters did not need to know that. Ignoring this interruption, the Iron King continued. "I have been instructed to find a peaceful resolution to this conflict that has gripped the continent."

Joffrey started to deny any wish to end the fighting, save with the complete and utter destruction of every rebel House, and the total removal of the Houses Stark, Greyjoy, and Tully from every record, when Ser Kevan spoke up. "Your Grace. Perhaps we should not be so hasty in our judgment. This war has been very costly, and its continued prosecution may not be in the best interest of your people."

"I believe you mean to say, Ser Kevan, is that you fear the Young Wolf may yet again outwit generals thrice his age, and that I might add more of your family's names to the list of those whom Lionsbane has claimed." Theon paused, as the throne room descended into a kind of shocked silence. Lord Blackwood gave him a sharp look, as if he might have gone too far, but his uncle and Marq Piper seemed to be approving, so he thought nothing else of it. "Regardless, Ser, the Kingdom of the North and that of the Iron Islands is offering you this chance to make peace, and beg our forgiveness for your murder of Eddard Stark, for Gregor Clegane's burning of the Riverlands, and for whatever part House Lannister played in the death of Robert Baratheon."

There was a sharp intake of breath as the throngs of lords, ladies, knights, squires, pages, and various others heard each new charge. With a devilish grin, Theon provided one further addendum. "Oh, I almost forgot. We'll probably want the Queen Regent and His Grace executed, she for her adultery and the incestuous conception of His Grace, Joffrey Waters, and the Bastard King for being a bastard. And starting the war."

Victarion burst out laughing, a great, rumbling guffaw, but he was the only one who looked amused. Joffrey had turned an alarming shade of purple, and Tywin looked not far behind him. Theon thought that little was more frightening than a furious Cersei Lannister, and she looked ready to burst. Even Ser Kevan, the voice of reason, looked as though he wanted little more than to reach for his sword and cut the arrogant little prick from Pyke down to size. Or, more likely, have someone do it for him.

Even Mace Tyrell looked more than a little upset, though Theon thought it more likely because he was afraid that he might encounter some very uncomfortable fate if he failed to feel the same sort of fury his masters did.

Theon stood there, waiting patiently and tapping one finger against the pommel of his sword, just to infuriate someone further. After a few moments he declared, "If His Grace would like to withdraw and discuss the terms provided, I would be willing to await his decision."

Joffrey shouted back, "Terms? I will accept no terms other than your head, and that of Robb Stark! In fact, I want yours now. Someone send for Ser Ilyn!"

Tywin had enough, evidently. He said in a calm, cold voice, "King Theon. We will return in a few moments. Please excuse His Grace. He is suffering from bouts with unsteady bowels. Grand Maester Pycelle will confirm this." With that, he swept away, dragging a very displeased grandson in his wake. Ser Kevan followed after him, ignoring Theon altogether. Cersei graced him with one last malevolent glare, and glided from the throne room, after her father, son, and uncle.

When they were gone, the crowd stood around, quite unsure of what they were to do. Theon turned to his uncle, and they both doubled over with laughter. Soon the two Riverlords and Lord Karstark joined in, and the entire rebel party was wheezing and laughing and slapping one another on the back, with the exception of Ser Manderly; he had long before gone in search of refreshment, and even now the son of Lord Lamprey was gulping down copious quantities of the Arbor's finest, obviously intended for the royal table, and now descending into the Northern knight's gullet.

After a few moments of standing around pointlessly, Mace Tyrell approached the little ambassadorial group, accompanied by the famous Knight of Flowers, Ser Loras Tyrell, and his sister, Margaery. Lord Mace seemed all too eager to please, now that he was no longer in Lord Tywin's sight. Ser Loras looked unimpressed with the man who had slain the Kingslayer, whilst the Bastard King's betrothed…

Theon thought she was blushing, though he didn't think he'd done anything which might warrant such a response. After all, he had only winked. Maybe he just was as attractive to the opposite sex as he boasted to everyone around the tables in the alehouses? _It's a possibility._

He did look rather dashing with a crown, he supposed.

The Fat Flower disturbed his thoughts. "Your Grace. That is, my Lord…Erm, King Theon…Ah, Lord Greyjoy…" The man seemed unable to decide what would be appropriate.

This went on for a few moments, until Theon stopped him. "Lord Mace. King Theon, or Your Grace will do."

"As you say, Your Grace." Tyrell huffed and puffed, as though he were constantly out of breath. Theon supposed he would be too, if he had to carry around a bulk the likes of Mace Tyrell. "If you might permit my saying so, you certainly put on an impressive display."

"You have my thanks, Lord Tyrell," Theon answered cordially. "Of course, with most Westermen, the sight of Lionsbane is usually enough to insure proper respect is accorded."

Ser Loras snorted derisively. "Such a storied blade. Tell me, do you joust? Or have you ever even seen a tourney? I cannot imagine having not done so. Surely even you Ironborn savages do know something of chivalry?"

Lord Mace looked as though he might actually strike his youngest son for his not-so veiled attempt at insulting a visiting monarch, though Ser Loras pointedly ignored him. Lady Margaery, on the other hand, seemed…curious to hear what the Ravager of the West might have to say.

Theon did not respond immediately, but instead turned aside slightly, allowing Victarion into the small circle. "Uncle, when did you kill your first man?"

The Iron Captain replied gruffly, "When I had my first woman. Shortly after my thirteenth name-day."

"And had you ever fought in a tourney? Or learned to joust?"

"Fightin' is about killing. Not prancing around in painted armor and playing games. As for jousting…what damned fool came up with that idea?" Victarion asked, a trifle upset.

Theon waved him off. "It's nothing of consequence, Uncle. But you've been most helpful." As Victarion turned away, Theon asked, "So, Ser Loras. How many battles have you won? How many men have you killed in the heat of the fighting?" After a moment of silence, he laughed and answered for him. "Don't be modest. You've felled hundreds of men and knights by the score, I'm sure."

Suitably chastened, Ser Loras stood there quietly.

_How many idiots like him are there, here, anyway? _Theon wondered. The thought of any further conversations with foppish fools like the Knight of Flowers made him ill. _How long has it been since I had a real fight? Two months? In Lannisport?_

He wasn't sure. But, he had little time to dwell on that fact, as Lord Mace was looking at him expectantly. Theon inquired, "Was there something you wanted, Lord Tyrell?"

Mace blinked. Obviously unused to such straightforward talk, he seemed more than a little put off. That did not slow him for long, though. "Forgive me for asking, Your Grace, but did you mean all of those things you said? That is, your demands."

"Well, of course not. Some of them were pretty ludicrous." Theon paused, as if thinking. "I may relent on the demand for Cersei Lannister's head. Robb might settle for her exile, instead."

Tyrell paled, and dabbed at perspiration on his forehead. Margaery simply looked up at him, those doe's eyes of hers staring through fluttering eyelashes. Well, he had demanded the head of her betrothed.

Mace finally recovered himself. "I…Ah, I see. But surely you must have some greater desire for peace than that. I'm certain the Iron Throne would be willing to offer other…rewards, should you relent in some of your more…permanent demands."

"You mean that little shit's life?" Theon laughed, but there was no mirth in his eyes. "Do I need to list his crimes for you, my Lord? Where should I begin?"

"And what of your own crimes, Turncloak?" A small voice chimed in. Theon realized it was Margaery. She had a rather lovely voice. Though, he could detect a distinct edge to it, and that innocent look was gone from her face. "They say you killed and raped your way through Lannisport, after you butchered Ser Jaime, and took another of Joffrey's relations as your personal whore," she spat. _Fiery, this one. Rather spirited._

The Iron King eyed her closely, and carefully asked, "What else do 'they' say, my Lady?"

"They say name you kinslayer, that you killed your own uncle for your crown, and your sister when she challenged your claim." She met his eyes, not blinking. "They also say you murdered two boys, the brothers of my friend, of your liege-lord."

He sighed, and rubbed one hand against his chin. "Aye, 'they' say that. But 'they' also say Lord Tywin shits gold, and I don't know about you, but I find that hard to believe." He took a deep breath. "If that were true, that I had betrayed Stark, why would I be here with his bannermen on his behalf?"

Her eyes narrowed. "It seems unlikely they would welcome you so readily. But the entire world knows the Kraken banner was planted with the corpses. You cannot deny that." She frowned. "And your sister and uncle?"

Theon nodded. "Aye, this is true. I killed Euron Crow's Eye. But he was a madman, ready to kill me for being Balon's son and true heir. As for Asha…she fled, after attempting to murder _me. _It was she who sacked Winterfell, and claimed Bran and Rickon Stark."

The Rose of Highgarden's eyes softened and she pressed one tiny hand to his cheek. "I…forgive me. I forgot myself, Your Grace. It's just…I had to know. She had to." She shook her head to someone standing among the crowd, but behind Theon.

He frowned. "What is it? Who are you talking-" Theon turned around slightly, and was cut off as a surprisingly light person leapt into his arms.

His shout of outrage was muffled as a shock of auburn hair whipped about in his face. He instinctively took hold of this sobbing, clutching girl in his arms. He had never, in all his time at Winterfell, experienced or witnessed such a show of affection, or perhaps desperation, from icily polite Sansa Stark, but that could have had to do with the murder of her father, or her proximity to Joffrey Waters.

She was weeping uncontrollably, her tiny body spasming against his. Theon Greyjoy really wasn't sure what to do, so he awkwardly held her and murmured, "There, there."

* * *

When Sansa had regained some measure of composure, Theon gripped her hand gently and gave it a squeeze. "I know that, while I was your father's ward, I was, perhaps…unkind to you, and am not likely your favorite person right now. That probably won't change once I return you to Robb. But for now…know that what I do, I do to get you out of this place."

He meant to pull away, but she leaned forward to press a chaste kiss against Theon's cheek, and whispered, "You came to save me when no one else did. You are my knight, just like in the stories."

He smiled slightly. "You forget, Highness, that I'm not a knight." He paused, grinning. "I am a handsome king with a famous sword, though." He glanced back over his shoulder, where the Tyrells stood watching them. As was the entirety of the court. Theon imagined he must make for a grand show. "Your friend, Lady Tyrell. She's very nice."

Sansa giggled softly. "Yes, she is indeed. When she was engaged to Joff, Margaery was my guardian angel. He never dared misbehave when she was around." She looked up at Theon curiously. "Why so interested?"

"Well, I am a King, you know. And I will need a Queen at some point." He eyed the Tyrell girl long enough to cause her to blush. "And she is rather…pretty."

Sansa smacked his hand subtly. "She is betrothed. To Joff! He would kill you!"

"The Lannisters have tried before," he murmured. "I'm not impressed. Now, would you care to join me?" He proffered an arm, which Sansa carefully took. Theon made his way back to the Tyrells. "Lord Mace. I'm sure you know Her Highness, Princess Sansa, heir to the throne of the North." He bowed stiffly, unsure of how to react to her newly recognized title. He glanced over at a door leading to the royal apartments, which opened, so Theon raised his voice and said, "I would like to invite you, and your children, to dine with my party this evening."

Mace Tyrell, eager to toady up as always, bubbled happily, "Your Grace, it would be our singular honor!"

The entire room froze as those words left his mouth. Mace shuffled slightly, and his jaw dropped in horror as he realized the magnitude of his error.

He was looking right at the entire remaining Lannister family, having returned from their deliberations.

They looked none too happy, either.

Naturally, Theon stepped forward and offered yet another sweeping bow. "My Lords and Lady of House Lannister! Thank you for gracing us with your presence once again. Now that you've discussed my initial demands, Princess Stark and I would be more than pleased to hear your counter-proposal." He took Margaery's hand in his, and pressed his lips against the knuckles. Theeon said in a soft voice, just loud enough for anyone to hear, "Until tonight, sweetling."

Joffrey looked ready to step down and start throwing punches at the Greyjoy upstart who dared flirt with his betrothed and flaunt himself with Sansa Stark, another sore spot for the blond-haired bastard boy.

Instead, Ser Kevan intervened. "King Greyjoy. His Grace has prepared a series of terms that we believe would be more appropriate."

Theon nodded. "I'm listening."

"First and foremost is the recognition of Joffrey Baratheon as the one True King of Westeros, and the pledges of yourself, Robb Stark, and every other lord in rebellion that you will swear fealty to a representative of the King. Secondly, the city of Lannisport and fortress of Casterly Rock, along with all other holdings in the Westerlands, shall be returned to House Lannister. The captives taken by the men of the Iron Islands shall be returned, unharmed, and all men who participated in the raping shall be castrated, and the murderers beheaded."

Theon chuckled quietly, "Do you want my head or my balls? Make up your mind, damnit!"

Kevan ignored this, though the nobility tittered softly. Even Margaery Tyrell showed him a shy smile. Kevan continued, "The sword Ice will be returned to House Stark, and all prisoners held by each side shall be released. Every house in rebellion shall send one child to be fostered here at court. Robb Stark shall give up his falsely assumed throne, but shall be allowed to remain at his seat of Winterfell. The title of Warden, however, will pass to a House His Grace deems more deserving. And finally, Greyjoy, you shall face punishment for your crimes of murdering he Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, the sack of a city home to half a million souls, the defilement of the Lady Cerenna Lannister, as well as a number of charges of other murders, thefts, arson, and piracy."

The Iron King blinked, and Victarion whistled. Theon cleared his throat. "Well, that's quite a list. I've got to say, I've impressed myself this time." Another laugh from the hall. "Though, I'm not sure I would call what I did with 'Renna 'defilement'. I actually had to tell her to stop keening my name so loudly, or else we'd wake the whole damned castle!"

The throne room broke out in uproarious laughter. Most of the lords, save for the Westermen, hardly bothered to disguise their mirth. Tywin's gaze bored into him balefully, but he was having far too much fun. "As for the rest, Ser Kevan, who do you think is winning this war, anyway? Last time I checked, you'd yet to win a single battle. And how is the war with Stannis coming along?" Theon stopped for a second, letting it sink in. "So I've got an offer for you, and a very generous one at that. You give me Lord Eddard's sword, Princess Sansa, Harrion Karstark and Ser Manderly's brother, and I'll consider writing to Good King Robb and asking him nicely to return the Rock. We can talk about that little shit's head later." Theon indicated Joffrey with a slight nod of his head. Then, he turned his gaze to Lord Tywin, eyes ablaze. "Lord Tywin. I've had enough of the games. You will make peace, and on our terms, or every man north of the God's Eye is going to come marching down the Kingsroad and show you what a _fucking m_ess you started when you decided to call your banners."

A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Tywin Lannister's mouth. "You wish to play this game, boy?" He asked in a deadly whisper. "The only true mistake that occurred was made when you chose not to save yourself the trouble and die on the end of Jaime's sword."

"As you say, Lord Tywin. And I am sure I will pay for that day, when I cut down your son. The one that wasn't a dwarf," Theon said, words dripping with malice. "But until that day comes, you'll get on your knees and make sure you've damned-well done everything that I ask."

Though he waved it away dismissively, Theon could tell the old bastard was worried. Or maybe not. Still, Tywin stood up and announced, "Ser Meryn. Ser Boros. Bring Ser Manderly and Lord Karstark's son here." The two Kingsguard departed, headed in the direction of the cells. He turned to the shadows. "Ser Ilyn."

The tall, gaunt man approached. He seemed furious. His mouth opened, and he made that horrible clacking sound with the stump of his tongue.

Lord Tywin sighed. "The sword, Ser Ilyn. Your King requires this of you."

The King's Justice might have been carved from stone. He slowly reached behind his back to seize the hilt with both hands, and slid the beautiful Valyrian-steel blade from its sheath. Theon had always been somewhat in awe of those blades. He had seen the Harlaw blade, Nightfall, and the deadly grace with which Ser Harras wielded it. They really were miraculous weapons.

Ser Ilyn placed the flat of the blade on his outstretched hands, and presented it to Theon. He dipped his head slightly, as if meekly following a command, but Payne fixed him with a sinister gaze, eyes gleaming balefully. _He really hates me._

Theon gestured sharply, and Lord Karstark stepped forward to accept the sword. He took it, settled the leather sheath across his back, before returning Ice to its scabbard.

Abruptly, Tywin announced, "His Grace is feeling indisposed. We will retire, now. You have our leave to depart." Theon raised an eyebrow, and the King's Hand spun about on his heel and marched out, back stiff as a board.

Ser Kevan followed after him, but first paused to murmur, "We will receive you first, in the morning, to discuss additional terms."

Theon inclined his head politely. "You have my thanks."

The last of the Lannisters departed. The Queen Regent stopped to whisper some verbal venom in Theon's ear, but Victarion intercepted her. He fixed her with an impudent grin, eyes slowly sliding from head to toe. "You know, I do love my women with golden hair and big tits," he said bawdily.

Cersei stood there for a moment, meeting his gaze. Victarion began to lean in for a kiss, when suddenly he stumbled backward, a resounding crack filling the room, and a livid red imprint forming on his Ironborn cheek where she had slapped him.

Victarion lifted his own hand to rub the site of the blow. He grunted irritably, "Ouch."

With a deceptively innocent smile, she murmured sweetly, "Try that again, my Lord Greyjoy, and I'll tear off your balls myself."

"I've got to say, I love your spirit." Victarion grabbed one arm roughly in his enormously powerful hands. "But in the end, woman, I would break you." He released her, then, and proceeded to ignore her as thoroughly as one ignores or simply does not notice a rug. Cersei's green eyes were aflame, but she just stormed away in a huff, displeased with being miffed in such a manner.

With royal family gone, Rickard Karstark came to clap Theon heavily on the back. The hoary Lord of Karhold grunted, "Well done, lad. That is, Your Grace." He cleared his throat. "I believe I owe you yet another debt. You avenged one son, and return the other to me. You';ll have to give me a chance to settle the score."

Ser Wylis nodded. "Aye. Wendel and I are indebted to you, Your Grace. Should you ever have need of our swords, or our words, we are at your disposal."

Marq Piper shrugged. "I don't mean to go swearing fealty to you, Greyjoy, but seeing a Lannister or three taken down a peg…that alone made this journey worthwhile."

"That was ill done." Tytos Blackwood interjected. The serious-looking Riverlord seemed rather upset. "We did not come to insult the Lannisters and spur them to further action, but make peace. I think you should count yourself lucky not to have lost all our heads!"

"Oh, shut your trap, Blackwood. Tywin Lannister won't make peace. Can you see him surrendering? Ever?" The Lord of Pinkmaiden snorted. "The point was to see how desperate they are for this war to be over. And Tywin isn't quite so frantic as we'd hoped."

Lord Tytos looked as though he wanted to argue with Piper, but he thought better of it, and held his tongue.

As the party grew quiet, the knights of the Kingsguard entered, dragging a very filthy looking Harrion Karstark, and half-starved Ser Wendel Manderly in their wake. Lord Rickard ran to his son, shoving aside Ser Boros and Ser Meryn. Ser Wylis was only a few steps behind him, embracing his brother in a great bear hug. Lord Karstark placed his arm about Harrion's shoulders, and the four walked back to where their men-at-arms and fellow rebel lords stood.

Theon reached over to squeeze Sansa's hand encouragingly. He murmured, "Don't worry, Stark. I'll have you out of here in a week, at the very most." Raising his voice, he called out to Mace, "Lord Tyrell! I look forward to seeing you at my table." His eyes met the Rose Queen's. "My Lady. Until tonight."

* * *

There was something wrong behind the walls of Pyke.

Aeron the Damphair, servant of the Drowned God, youngest brother of Balon Greyjoy, and now Castellan of his nephew's seat, woke from dreams of death and slaughter.

He ascended the stairwell to his king's chambers, where he had received word that the foolish boy was going to provoke the Lion once again – this time, in its den.

Aeron Greyjoy was not a fool. He was a servant of the Drowned God, and he knew that many mocked him as mad, or even possessed by spirits. But he had learned that the God acted in strange ways; an important revelation could come in the form of a stomach ache.

So his grip around the hilt of his belt knife tightened as he threw open the door to Theon's rooms.

A dark shape lay upon the coverlets. He saw a fan of golden hair. _His woman. _Heaving a sigh of relief, Aeron stepped into the bedchamber. He called out softly, "Child, is all well?"

The Lannister girl did not reply. He strode over to the side of the bed. He pressed his hand to her cheek, and felt something wet.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, the Damphair witnessed a new level of horror.

Cerenna Lannister's eyes stared unblinking up at the ceiling, her mouth wide, and frozen in terror. A narrow, red smile opened across her throat, stretching from ear to ear. But that wasn't want really shocked Aeron Greyjoy.

A bloody crater sat where her stomach might have been, entrails scattered across the lower bed sheets. He had seen men killed in war, but this…he thought he might vomit.

A dark chortling erupted from the shadows. Figures emerged from the darkness, surrounding him and sliding the door shut, leaving Aeron isolated. Someone the Damphair had never thought to see again swayed towards her, carrying a bloody bundle in her arms. Asha Greyjoy, the exiled Daughter of the Kraken, smiled maliciously at her horrified uncle. "Dear Uncle Aeron. Would you like to see my baby nephew?" She held up the tiny wad in her arms.

Aeron thought he might faint. "You…cut the child from her womb? But she is barely two moons…" He trailed off. "This is depravity on a new level, Asha. There will be no forgiveness for you. You really shouldn't have hurt the girl. Your brother will be very upset."

"Oh, I imagine he'll be devastated. Mad with rage, in fact. Of course, he'll have more to mourn than his slut and her bastard." She gestured sharply to one of the shadows, and Aeron heard the sliding of steel across leather.

He waved his arms in front of him, "Damn it all to storms! Ironborn shall not shed the blood of Ironborn, nor kin of their own! Have you forgotten everything that you have known?!"

"Perhaps you're right." She turned back to the men. "Lorren, end him. I want his guts draped across the threshold before dawn." Her footsteps grew fainter as she left the room, heading for the study.

Aeron lashed out about himself with his dirk, and bellowed a war shout as he felt his blade catch flesh. Driving it with every ounce of his being, he hacked and stabbed the body in front of him, diving atop it and pummeling what he though was the head with his left fist. The man beneath him went limp, and Greyjoy started to rise when a cold, metal tip pierced through his breastbone. He tried to turn his head, but the weight of the steel through his chest was too much. His attacker tried to pull it back out through his back, but it caught on his spine. A boot was pressed against the small of his back, and the sword yanked roughly from him.

Aeron felt his life pouring out of him. Blood dribbled forth from his lips, and he fell forward. The last thing he saw was the Lannister girl's blank, vacant, dead stare. He hoped he would not leave behind something so blatantly lifeless.


	9. Chapter 8

**Wassersaeufer: **A little self-dedication is just what a man needs to keep himself going. After all, my whims are my own inspiration. Also, congratulations on being my most regular reviewer! (There's no trophy.)

**FanofASOIAF: **Fear not, I'm not going to set forth the proposition that a short, heart-to-heart chat between the world's second or third most insensitive punk and a little girl will really fix all the emotional trauma Sansa's suffered. However, even chronically depressed people, or people otherwise emotionally scarred people, can have brief moments of happiness. Or, maybe Theon is a miracle faith healer.

**Harrylee94: **Honestly, I don't know what he's got up those sleeves of his; there could be a hiddden blade, like Altair, or a fifth ace, cause he seems like a guy who would cheat at cards. In my opinion. Actually, it seems more probable he would have someone cheat for him, while he paid the other players to kill the guy he was cheating.

**ReadyFred-ReadyGeorge: **Where do I even begin? Well, thanks so much. I'm glad you're along for the ride. Speaking to the end scene, well, while writing, it was like an announcer said "FATALITY"! To be perfectly honest, it was not my original intent for Asha to last as long as she has. While I despise most of the Ironborn for their actions, and privately want to kill all of them off fast, I can't help but love them. Does that make me a bad person? Probably.

**Supremus85: **The Young Kraken? Like the Young Wolf? So, should Edmure Tully be the "Young Trout"? We could shorrten it more, and make Joffrey be the "Kitten".

**Artemis1000:** Hooked, are you? Well, I'll be certain to keep the line baited. I hope you enjoy that which is to come.

**TitanWolf:** Isurprised someone? Oh, joy! You can't even begin to comprehend how excited that makes me feel.

**FLaTone: **That is so sweet. I do appreciate the glowing review. Hopefully you'll stick around and offer some good feedback. I always enjoy a chance to improve.

Oh, by the by, if you haven't read SilverRavenStar's ASOIAF fic "The North Remembers" yet, then go fall in a well. Preferably one where you can access the internet, and get to that story ASAP. It's required reading for anyone who fancies themselves a true G.R.R.M. fan. Do it, or I'll follow in his footsteps and kill another Stark!

Oh, and here's the update.

CHAPTER EIGHT

* * *

Tywin Lannister was rather cross with his remaining relations. Kevan's boys Lancel, Martyn, and Willem, Kevan himself, along with Ser Damion and his son appeared to be the last of the men of his blood. With Stafford and Daven dead in the West, those of the cadet branches truly unfit for command, and Jaime...

No. He wasn't going to think about Jaime. Not until he made the little up jumped pirate suffer unprecedented agony for robbing Tywin of his only true son, his heir no matter what the law dictated.

The Warden of the West, Shield of Lannisport, and Hand of the King was the last true hope his grandson had of surviving to see the onset of winter. But those fools around him were making it no easier. Stannis had been bloodied, but he was far from broken. Dragonstone still loomed over the Blackwater Bay, and not even the bravest of smugglers dared run the risk of being captured by those flying the burning heart. Many were quick to hail Tywin's timely arrival as a great victory, but it was, in truth, merely a hasty retreat from the brink of a crumbling cliff-face. And one which still threatened to give way at any moment.

Of the rest of his family, only Kevan had a head on his shoulders, and that gave way to Tywin's own will far to often for him to be of any real help. The rest were boys. _Tyrion is a clever little runt, _Tywin mused. He knew that the city would, in all likelihood, have fallen before he could have arrived had it not been for Tyrion's intervention. He wanted to be able to take pride in a son who would charge forth into a field of fire, inspiring brave men to go where they feared, but every time he saw the stunted dwarf all he could see was the creature which had murdered Joanna.

_Had he been anything other than what he is, he would have been worthy of the name. _Still, there was no way he could prove that the Imp was not, in fact, his son, and so he observed that which was demanded of him by law.

So it was he found himself silently fuming in his solar in the Tower of the Hand, staring at a pile of hastily marked upon maps, indicating troops positions, strengths of forces, and suspected allegiances. Prince Doran still refused to move, and the Fat Flower sweatily informed him that the men of the Reach would go no further than the Roseroad until the Dornish went home. Unfortunately, he could not really threaten the man he was asking to field two-thirds of the Crown's army, and so Lord Tywin had no choice but to let him sit there, watching the Prince's Pass.

But he really could not afford this. Given fugitives from the West, men following after or his bannermen coming to King's Landing accordsing to his orders, he had perhaps 40,000 men to defend the capital with. An optimistic guess. Another five thousand under-equipped and poorly-trained Goldcloaks would serve as a buffer, but...

As memory served him, the Stark boy had brought around eighteen thousand men with him. Perhaps two thousand of them had fallen between the Green Fork and his great victories in the West. The Riverlords could amass nearly _forty thousand _themselves, albeit those numbers only occured when the Riverlords summoned every levy they could muster. It seemed likely they would have little more than half of that. A formidable force, still. He had heard the Greyjoy pup had lost men in taking Lannisport and holding it, and could estimate that there remained perhaps a further fifteen thousand Ironborn raiders able to carry a sword. So, yes, he needed the Tyrells and their hundred thousand strong host. But, 60,000 screaming Dornishmen would be enough to give even Tywin himself pause.

A knock sounded at the door, however, interrupting his reverie.

"Enter," he called out, annoyed. He had told Kevan that he was not to be disturbed.

However, as the heavy door creaked open, it was his brother that stepped through, looking rather like something had struck him between the eyes.

"What is it?" Tywin inquired.

Kevan seemed as though he were struggling to hide something. Elation, perhaps? What did he have to be pleased with? _My son is dead, little brother. _

Instead of answering directly, he stuck out a crumpled looking parchment, as though it had been read many times, over and over, and very recently. "Here," he said, "read."

And Tywin did so. His eyes had to scan the parchment several times to ensure he haad read it correctly. After a while, he let it fall from his fingers, the heavy wax seal of a mockingbird set beside a crescent moon weighing the letter down. A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of Tywin's lips; not one of joy, but of sheer malice.

Kevan cleared his throat. "So. I trust you agree to his terms?"

"Inform Lord Baelish that the King agrees that his appointment as Warden of the East is long overdue. Congratulate him on his marriage to Lady Lysa, wishing him many sons." Tywin paused. "The Vale's armies have reached the Mountains of the Moon, have they not?"

Kevan quickly nodded. "They have."

"As they should." He brushed his fingers across the chain of golden hands about his neck. "Instruct Lord Baelish that he and his bannermen will be needed when we give battle to the rebel host. Remind him of the price of disloyalty and of treachery."

Kevan nodded once more. "Of course, Tywin. I will see it done."

He departed then, leaving Tywin Lannister to his maps and plots.

* * *

After two days, Victarion was sick and tired of his nephew's moping.

If he had flown into a rage and beat a nearby servant half to death (as Victarion had) or poured copious quantities of ale and cheap wine down his throat until he had passed out in a puddle of piss and vomit (also as Victarion had), he would have understood, or even commiserated. After all, he lost his last brother. Not the closest of relationships, but Aeron had still been his blood. And Theon mourned some Lannister slut he whelped a bastard on. The Commander of the Iron Fleet had done as much a dozen times or more. It just didn't make a damn bit of sense.

The thing that baffled him the most, though, was Theon's refusal to do anything other than sit, gaze unseeingly at the blank wall, and only speak when spoken to, and even then only in quiet, mono-syllabic replies. Had Victarion been in his nephew's position, he would have been calling for Asha's head. But in response to the suggestion, he had only murmured softly, "She destroys everything I try to build."

He really wasn't prepared to deal with his newphew's responsibilities. He wanted to do three things: fight, feast, and fuck. Instead, he had to deal with idiots like the sweating, pompous, and otherwise boorish Mace Tyrell. The Fat Flower, they called him. It was a name well deserved. The fellow always wanted assurances, a guarantee here, a pledge there, lands for this knight or lord, always demanding more. It was gluttonous, is what is was. Being forced to associate with these Greenlanders, to ingratiate himself into their ways, was sickening to him. _The Kraken is not intended to play these games. _

But play them he would, because he was a soldier first, and a soldier did his duty to his King. Even when that King needed an uncle to kick his sorry-looking arse into line.

Negotiations with the Lannisters were going even worse. He had tried to pay attention, but when the aboslutely stunning brotherfucker Queen Regent stepped into the councilroom, all the blood that had been in Victarion's brain usually surged right to his cock. And still she refused all his advances. But that didn't matter. Either she would come to him willingly, or he'd take her when their armies took King's Landing. It would all be a matter of when.

Victarion would often drift off into pleasant thoughts about how this would occur, toying with various fantasies. At least, until Ser Kevan cleared his throat loudly enough to stir him from his reflections and jolt him back to the matter at hand.

As for the Lannister men, he was simply tired of them. It seemed to him hat no matter for how long nor how often they met, nothing was ever established. If it weren't for the fact that his nephew and Stark had the Westermen by the balls, Victarion would think it all to be a delaying action.

His only real wish was that his king would hurry up and finish their business with the Lannisters.

* * *

A knock came at his door. Voice muffled by a pillow, he shouted, "Go the fuck away!"

The knock came again, more insistent this time. Theron rolled over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling through bleary, grief-reddened eyes. Empty jugs of ale were strewn across the floor, and a dark red stain on the whitewashed wall betrayed the residue of the wreckage of a wine bottle thrown against it in anger.

The Iron King swung his bare legs over the edge of his bed, upsetting further the already tangled bed sheets. He tugged a tunic over his head, and jerked a pair of nearby trousers up to his waist before clumsily tying the laces.

With a curse upon stumbling over one of the discarded clay ale pots, he reached the door in time for his unwelcome guest to release a flurry of blows Theon was sure would have cracked the wood.

He lifted the latch and growled angrily, "What are you bloody well doing? Who the fuck is it, anyway?"

"It's me." The door swung open, revealing Sansa standing in the doorway. Her gaze swept across him from head to toe. Eyes demurely downcast, she inquired, "May I come in?"

He deftly spun around, reaching for a nearby crystal decanter that seemed moderately full. Throwing himself into a heavily-cushioned chair, he lounged lazily in it. Rather than pouring himself a glass, he swallowed straight from the source, allowing dark red wine to stain his lips. Theon seemed intent on ignoring her.

Sansa released a small sigh, and swept into the room, before taking a seat on a small wooden stool opposite him. After a moment of rather carefully smoothing and arranging her skirts she murmured, "I'm sorry, Theon, for your loss. Truly."

The Iron King chortled into the quickly draining container, causing rivulets of nature's bounty to stream down his chin and onto his doublet. "Sorry?" He wheezed. "Asha took virtually everything in the world that might have been precious to me. And you're sorry."

Sansa's eyes seemed at the point of tears. "I know losing your uncle must be hard, but...oh," she said, as though understanding had dawned upon her. "You mean _her. _Did you...you loved her, didn't you?" Sansa asked, with a hint of an accusatory tone in her voice.

"I...I don't know." Theon shook his head sadly. "I thought that, maybe...I don't know what I felt." He seemed on the verge of tears himself. "Damn it all, I can't even decide if I really cared for her! What kind of man am I?" He took another swig from the soon emptied decanter, only the dregs left at the bottom. "Asha...Asha murdered my child, Sansa. What would you know of loss like that?"

"Your sister killed Bran and Rickon too, Theon," the heir to the North replied, "but I do not incapacitate myself. I must be strong, because my family needs me to be strong. Just as your kingdom needs you to be strong now, Theon." One hand went out to cup his chin, and draw his eyes to hers.

He could not meet that Tully gaze for long. Theon pulled her into a rough embrace, clutching her head to his chest and weeping like a small child. Sansa said nothing, despite the almost overwhelming stink of ale, wine, and something else much more foul. Instead, she ran a tiny hand through his hair, as though smoothing the tears out of him.

After a time, a period which seemed like ages to the weeping king, he felt no more grief threatening to boil over. He managed to keep Sansa's gaze this time, reached out to take her hand, and pressed his lips to it, murmuring, "Aye. I must care for the living."

Sansa Stark giggled as his mustache brushed across her fingers. "That tickles." She gave him another appraising look, and said sweetly, "Now, Your Grace, before you do that, you need a bath." Her nose wrinkled. "You stink."

* * *

An hour later, the King of the Iron Islands found himself freshly-bathed, clean-shaven, and freshly-clothed. He was seated upon a cool stone bench in the midst off the gardens, while Sansa regaled him with the tales and gossip of the last few days. It seemed that the Manderly brothers were determined to eat through the winter stores of the Red Keep, and that Lord Rickard would no longer have grounds for badgering Theon about marrying his daughter, Alys. It seemed that her be trothal had been arranged with the young Lord Daryn Hornwood. Sansa had waxed womanish about the details for the wedding, how it would be held in Winterfell, and how Robb had arranged for a special wedding gift for his friend. Theon had been tempted to tune her out, but found her girlish jabbering, in this one instance, strangely endearing. It probably had something to do with her witnessing him sobbing like a baby. He was sure it would pass in time, like the occasional painful rash he heard men tell tales of developing after spending a night with an especially cheap whore. Theon himself had always preferred a higher quality degree of cunt in which to spend himself, but that was his preference.

The gardens themselves, he thought, were exquisite. Roses and hyacinths in full bloom, white trellises bedecked with flowers hung over smooth cobblestone paths in perfect arches. Blue, red, yellow, purple, orange, and even pink blossoms stretched for as far as he could see. And beside it all was the green. Theon doubted he had every seen so much raw color at any point in his life. Ever. Pyke had been dark, a hodge podge of browns and greys, and Winterfell had been little better: white stretching as far as the eye could see, contrasting sharply with the grey stone of the fortress. Had he been anything other than a man of action, he thought it might be enough to bring a tear to his eye. _Nah._

As Sansa chattered on about days spent adventuring about with Margaery Tyrell, Theon delicately took her hand in his, tracing patterns across the back of it idly with one finger of the other. She stopped mid-sentence, her anecdote about one of Lady Tyrell's cousins abruptly cut short, and her cheeks turned as red as her hair.

He said nothing, simply remaining silent and staring into her eyes, dark arresting light. The Iron King thought he might be able to do that forever. But the god, or gods, or fate, was seldom so kind.

A horrible, arrogant, and most unpleasant voice interrupted his trance. "Greyjoy. Imagine finding you here."

Theon wrenched his eyes from Staark's with some difficulty, and turned to the source of the disturbance: the golden-haired bastard himself. He decided it might be best to quite carefully ignore him.

More than a little irritated by his refusal of acknowledgement, Joffrey stepped back beyond a short hedge seperating pathways, and re-emerged a moment later with Margaery's arm entwined through his, and Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard at his back. He said quite loudly, "Margaery,_ love!_ What was it you were saying about these flowers?"

Theon looked up at the mention of Lady Tyrell. He caught her gaze and smiled slightly. She returned it in kind, and rolled her eyes upwards in the direction of His Grace. Clearing her throat softly, she murmured, "Your Grace. This particular arrangement was cultivated and grown in the personal garden of my lady mother, Lady Alerie. It had a long tradition of being used for-"

"Oh, do be quiet. Mother says that I'm to be on guard for your feminine words, seeking to lead me astray, distracting me with your nonsense." He took a step closer to her, grip tightening to what had to be a painful degree, his knuckles white and shaking. "You aren't using your wiles upon me, are you?"

The Iron King rose, murmuring to Sansa, "A moment, please." He strode deftly forward, arms clasped at the small of his back. He extended one hand to firmly seize the bastard's shoulder and spin him around roughly. "Your Grace. I fear you are in danger of rendering harm unto Lady Margaery." His dark Greyjoy eyes met those Lannister green ones. "I would greatly encourage you to release her, lest she be unintentionally hurt. And neither of us would desire that, I'm sure."

Much to Theon's dismay, the idiot's grip, if anything, only tightened. Lady Margaery, to her credit, did nothing more than wince slightly. However, this was truly inexscusable. And likely to get out of hand. So, he did the only logical thing there was to do.

He clenched his fist, and, stepping into it firmly with his left foot, aimed a furious right uppercut for the underside of Joffrey's jaw.

The blow caught the Lannister boy completely unawares. He went stumbling back right into a completely stunned Ser Meryn, his blade only an inch out of its sheath. Instead, the knight was forced to catch his flailing sovereign who, it seemed, had been rendered unconscious by the punch. Amused, Theon bent over to pick up a bloody fragment on the ground. It appeared to be one of the Bastard King's front teeth. He hurled it into the air, sending it to be lost among the virtual jungle of foliage. Theon offered Ser Meryn a winning smile. "Ser. It appears His Grace is in need of rest. You should return him to his chambers. I will see to Lady Margaery's well-being."

The shocked knight scurried off, boy-king in his arms. Based upon the outcry of general uproar that broke out after his departure, Theon felt that their king's injury had not gone unnoticed. Sansa released a short, vindictive laugh at seeing her nemesis laid low. Lady Tyrell, however, looked unamused. "Your Grace," she said, a fiery glint in her eyes, "while my betrothed was behaving in a most unchivalrous manner, that was really unnecesary."

Sansa sniffed pointedly, and the Greyjoy and the Stark strolled along quietly, in no apparent hurry to flee the scene. Margaery followed along behind. Her Highness glanced back over her shoulder and murmured, "Marg, sweetling. It was completely unnecesary. In my mind, His Grace should have used a sword rather than a fist."

By the time Lady Tyrell had caught up with them and was able to cut in front of the pair, they had successfully navigated through several perfectly trimmed hedges, and entered a part of the garden as yet unexplored by Theon. Margaery sighed, and leapt into her friend's arms without reservation. "Oh, Sansa, darling. I don't know why I refused to listen to you. I though with Loras in the Kingsguard things might be...different, but Joffrey just sends him away on the most pointless of assignments. He actually struck me yesterday; did you know that?"

Theon's fingers brushed across Lionsbane's pommel. "Methinks you were correct, Your Highness. I think King Joffrey is overdue for his appointment with the edge of my blade."

The Iron King felt tiny fingers timidly entwine with his. He glanced to his side to find Stark smiling shyly up at him. He looked away for a moment, just a moment, and in that split second he thought the Bastard's betrothed might have been staring daggers at her erstwhile friend. But then she caught him staring, and she was abruptly all smiles again. _Girls are so...strange. _

He self-consciously removed his hand from Sansa's, before clapping his own hands together and rubbing them briskly. "Well. I could do with a spot of breakfast. Would you ladies care to join me?" He extended an arm to each, which they took with great abandon, and the trio set off for the feasting hall.

* * *

"King Greyjoy. How good of you to finally grace us with your presence."

As Theon slid the door shut behind him, he turned to find Lord Tywin, Ser Kevan, Ser Addam Marbrand, the Queen Regent, and Lord Tyrion gathered on the far side of the table, awaiting him. Victarion and the Lords Karstark, Piper, and Blackwood already had taken seats. Sounds of the clinking of knives against plates in an adjoining chamber indicated the presence of the Manderly brothers, still partaking of their meal. As he looked across at the Lannister faces set before him, he tried to draw upon the very recent memories of smiles from Sansa and blatant flirtations from Margaery. He would have to have _something_ to think about.

Instead of joining his companions, he stood directly behind the chair provided for him, opposite Tywin. "Your Grace. My Lords. Noble Sers. I fear these negotiations will prove to be pointless, as I cannot speak for the Kingdoms of the North and the Trident. However, for your peace with me, you have heard mine own terms. I have no desire for Casterly Rock, nor Lannisport. There will be no prosecution of acts committed in a state of war against the West; did you not order Ser Gregor to do as much and worse in the Riverlands, Lord Tywin?" He paused, watching those Westerlander faces carefully. "My Kingdom shall receive a payment of one million golden dragons, not from the royal treasury, but in physical coin and from House Lannister. Further, Harrion Karstark, Ser Manderly, Lord Medger Cerwyn, and Princess Stark will depart King's Landing with my party, as a gesture of goodwill. When you have reached aa settlement for peace with the Starks, then your payments may begin. However, should you fail to pursue peace, I shall consider our agreement as void. Are we agreed, Lord Hand?"

For a long while, the Lannisters stared at him, as though he were a complete and utter fool. Before Tywin could speak, the Queen spoke. "Keep your Northern barbarian friends. They were beginning to foul the air in my home, and that would not do at all. Some men, at least, have a grasp of basic hygiene."

Tywin turned an irritated look upon his daughter. "Yes, King Greyjoy. We are agreed. I shall expect that your party will depart at dawn tomorrow."

Theon grinned. "Of course. I will take my leave."

The rebels rose and quietly filed from the room, apparently confused. Once they were out of earshot, Karstark placed a hand on his shoulder. "Lad...peace with the Lannisters for a single million? We could sack King's Landing and find ten times that!"

A slow, michevious grin crossed Theon's face. "Aye. But what I failed to meention was that shortly after its fall, my men removed every last golden coin from the Lannisters' vaults. All of it. I even had enough to send as a gift for Daryn, in celebration of his impending doom-er, marriage." He ticked off a few fingers. "Aye. I believe that when you return home, Lord Karstark, you will find a sum in excess of twenty thousand golden dragons deposited in your treasury. The same was done for you, Lord Piper, and even you, Lord Blackwood."

The men were astounded. Such sums on a whim? Lord Rickard stammered, "Erm...H-how much gold did you take?"

"Like I said...all of it." He chuckled. "Lord Harlaw said something in the realm of five million dragons, all told." He ran a hand through his hair. "The best part is that Lord Tywin will be furiously digging in his mines to meet the last million he now owes me. The wealthiest house in the realm? More like the poorest, now."

Marq Piper could not have been more greatly amused. Even Tytos Blackwood, despite his cautious nature, cracked a grin, more at the prospect of lots of coin than anything else.

The men went off in search of wine. Lots and lots of wine.

Several hours later, Theon realized that it was fully dark. He bid his fellow traitors good night, and set off in search of a warm bed.

* * *

That evening, he lay awake, his doublet and tunic haphazardly strewn across the room, along with his boots. Theon stared into a single burning candle. "What a day."

His eyelids slid shut slowly, even as he heard a slight creaking at the foot of his bed, and he murmured aloud, "I miss her."

A voice seemed to murmur comforting words of endearment, and it seemed as though he could feel the press of ethereal lips upon his own through the narrow veil of consciousness. But the owner had not a shock of golden hair, or the flash of emerald green eyes, or even the sound of the babe she would have given him, much to his shame. But that burning embarrassment faded away to reveal a new glint of a face in his mind's eye. But was it that auburn hair and those Tully blue eyes, or the soft brown of Margaery Tyrell?

He still struggled to answer that question as the sun broke night's grip upon the world.


End file.
